The Witch King and the Fates of Arnor and Gondor
by Rob Rastorp
Summary: An account of the machinations of the Witch King against the realms of Arnor and Gondor in the decades prior to and after the year 2000 of the Third Age of the Sun, setting the stage for the War of the Ring.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

By the Fords of Angren, the mists of Dawn oft lie heavy and thick. Not until the Sun rises high in the East are they dispelled, and the contours of the land revealed; a narrow, grassy valley amid the Gap of Calenardhon, between the Misty Mountains of the North, and the White Mountains of the South.

Gandalf the Grey stood enshrouded by the chill mists, leaning heavily on his gnarled wooden staff as he rested at the western bank of the Fords. His bearded face was hidden by the rim of his peaked blue hat, and he stood so still looked more like a pillar of stone than a Man. He had lost his steed at Tharbad, many leagues to the north and west, and had been forced to walk the rest of the way on foot. Now he was many days late, and waited anxiously, wondering whether this long journey had been in vain. Perhaps the one whom he sought had long since departed?

Then, when nearly an hour had passed since dawn, and the mists were beginning to dissolve in the light of day, Gandalf saw him; a lone rider, bearing an ebon staff, garbed in robes of white, and mounted on a white steed. The steed hesitated for a moment, as its rider caught sight of Gandalf from afar. Then it cantered towards the bank of the Fords, halting but a few paces away from the Grey Wizard.

"Saruman the White," said Gandalf, bowing deeply. His voice was dry and husky, as if with thirst and exhaustion. "A thousand pardons for my tardiness. I…"

"You are two weeks late," replied Saruman, his deep voice echoing harshly amongst the nearby rocks of the Fords. "_I_ was here at dawn on the first day of February, just as we had agreed. When I realized you had been delayed, I retired to the tower of Orthanc in the fortress of Angrenost, a guest of the Gondorian garrison there. Every day I have ridden to the Fords at dawn, awaiting your arrival. It is fortunate for you that you have at last seen fit to meet me here; had you not done so, I would have crossed the Fords and returned to Gondor this very morning."

"Well, better late than never," replied Gandalf defensively. "It wasn't intentional, I assure you. I departed from my chambers at Fornost in a timely manner. But my mare threw me and bolted while wading across the frigid waters of the Greyflood at Tharbad, and ever since, I have practically been running night and day to…"

"Enough," replied Saruman, with a wave of his long pale hand. Gandalf noted that he still had not bothered to dismount, and continued to stare down from on high. "Let us turn to business," continued the White Wizard. "You sent word through one of Radagast's messenger birds that you wished an audience with me at the Fords of Angren, a convenient meeting place between Fornost and Minas Anor. Your message stated that you had urgent need of my aid, but that you dared not reveal in writing the cause in which I am to aid you. I can guess at your purposes, naturally, but I should rather hear them from your own lips."

"The cause is that of Arnor, the ancient kingdom of Elendil the Tall and Isildur his eldest son," replied Gandalf somberly. "It is in grave peril."

"It has long been in grave peril," said Saruman. "Get to the point."

"The point," replied Gandalf rather testily, as if in impatience at having to belabour the obvious, "is that the end is near at hand for the North Kingdom. Century by century, the dominion of Isildur's heirs has been diminished, until Fornost and portions of the lands nearby in Arthedain and Cardolan are all that are left to him. Now the Witch King of Angmar prepares to strike at Fornost, and annihilate the last remnants of the Dunedain of Arnor, the northern sons of Numenor."

"Angmar has fought many wars with Arnor, or what is left of Arnor," replied Saruman. "Still the North Kingdom stands, as it has stood for more than two-thousand years."

"But not for much longer," insisted Gandalf. "Our spies report that a vast army has assembled at Carn Dum, the Witch King's fortress in his dreadful land of Angmar; thousands of wild Hill-men of Hithaeglir and Rhudaur, legions of Orcs and Goblins of the Grey and the Misty Mountains, great hill-Trolls from the Ettenmoors. Even a Cold Drake from the wastes of Forodwaith. All of them shall march on Fornost, the last bastion of Arnor, no sooner than the snows of winter have melted in the North. Already the time draws near."

"Then what do you expect of me?" asked Saruman with a shrug. "If the Dunedain of Fornost can no longer fight and win their own battles, they should turn to their kinsmen in the South Kingdom of Gondor for aid. Or perhaps even to the Elves, if those high and mighty ones will still deign to listen to the pleas of mortals as they did in the Elder Days."

"The Elves are firm allies of Arnor," replied Gandalf with a frown. "Both Lord Cirdan of Mithlond and Lord Elrond of Rivendell have pledged alliance with King Arvedui. But the Elves are too few in these latter days; between them they cannot muster more than two-thousand warriors. When added to the eight-thousand Men of Arnor at Fornost, that is a mere ten-thousand soldiers to fight against the armies of the Witch King, who are ten times as numerous."

"So I ask again, what of Gondor?" replied Saruman. "Surely they will aid their northern cousins, if Arnor's plight is as desperate as you say."

"King Arvedui has sent word to King Earnil II, requesting his aid" said Gandalf. "But Earnil has refused him. He claimed that Gondor has no soldiers to spare on behalf of the North Kingdom, for the South Kingdom is beset with its own troubles."

Gandalf sighed. "That might be true enough," he continued. "The South Kingdom has of course been troubled ever since the civil strife that plagued the realm several hundred years ago allowed the Black Numenoreans of Umbar to shake-off the yoke of Gondor once and for all. Now the Black Ships of the Corsairs of Umbar harass the coasts of Gondor, and their Haradrim allies have turned the lands south of the Poros into a deserted and debatable realm. Moreover, the Easterlings have begun to stir again. In its struggle with the barbarians, Gondor has retreated on all fronts. It has lost its grip on Dorwinion, it no longer controls the lands north of the Argonath..."

"I don't require a lesson on the history of Gondor!" exclaimed Saruman. "For the last time, what is the nature of the aid you expect me to provide?"

"My first request," replied Gandalf, "is that you use your influence with the Gondor-men to persuade them to send troops to aid their kin in the North. Even a few thousand Gondorians at Fornost would be better than none at all"

"It is not for me to tell King Earnil how to deploy his armies," replied Saruman. "Moreover, to do so would weaken Gondor at a time when it is beset by its own enemies, as you yourself just admitted."

"Perhaps," frowned Gandalf. "But if you cannot grant my first request, at least you can grant my second."

"Which is?"

"That you ride north with me," replied Gandalf, "to succor the Men of Arnor in their struggle against the Witch King. I dared not ask you but in person, for fear that the enemy might intercept the message. Now, we shall have the element of surprise – if you grant my request. Two Wizards are surely better than one; and without the aid of Gondor, the Men of Arnor are in desperate need of your help as well as mine."

Saruman was silent for some moments. Then a thin smile spread across his narrow, white-bearded face, and his dark eyes glinted with some hidden mirth. "I understand," he replied, his voice now rich and mellow. "Gandalf the Grey fears to face the dreaded Witch King of Angmar in a duel of wizardly powers. He hopes that the presence of the White Wizard, standing by his side, will tip the balance in his favour when the Witch King confronts him."

"That is _not_ how I would put it," replied Gandalf with a frown. His blue eyes, bright and keen, peered sharply up at Saruman. "Rather I would say that White and Grey should stand together against Black – if indeed they are friends, willing to stand together at all."

"If I were not your _friend_, as you put it," replied Saruman, his smile looking more like a snarl, "I should not have ridden from the comfort of Minas Anor to these barren lands, or waited for fully two weeks after the date set for our meeting. But I shall tell you plainly that while I have long guessed at your purposes, you shall receive no aid from me, other than the benefit of my wisdom and my counsel. I shall not ride north with you."

"Indeed?" said Gandalf, his back stiffening as he stood to his full height. "And what business is so important that it distracts the White Wizard from aiding the Men of the West against the servants of the Enemy?"

"My business is my own," replied Saruman haughtily. "And it lies eastward, not northward. As soon as the spring has arrived, I shall set out once again for the lands east of Anduin, and it may be many years before I return. For it is the East, not the North, that is the realm of our true Enemy; Sauron the Abhorred. And in those eastern lands lie many secrets of his lore, yet waiting to be discovered and used against him."

"Yes, I know of your fondness for Ring-lore," replied Gandalf. "And it matters not to me what you study on your own time for use against the Enemy in the future. But Arnor is threatened in the here and now, by a foe hardly less potent than Sauron himself! It is folly to abandon the North Kingdom to dire peril, in pursuit of knowledge that is of no use to us at present."

"You speak as if you know nothing of Ring-lore," said Saruman. "Yet you know full well that the Rings of Power are at the heart of all of Sauron's schemes for dominion. There is no purpose more pressing and important than uncovering all there is to know of them. Thus the pursuit of Ring-lore is my own especial domain, my own province as head of our Order. It is not my place to ride into battle and face foes in a test of skill. I must preserve my energies for the far more dangerous struggle that lies ahead."

"You once faced foes in open combat, if memory serves me well," replied Gandalf wryly.

"But no longer," insisted Saruman, shaking his head.

"Perhaps that is why Gondor has fallen on hard times, when once it stood invincible," shot back Gandalf mischievously.

"I will not bandy words with the likes of you," replied the White Wizard. "You have asked for my aid, and I have told you my counsel is all I shall offer. My counsel is this; get you gone to Orthanc, beg or borrow a steed from the garrison of the Gondor-men in that place, and then ride hard for Fornost. The Men of Arnor will have need of you sooner rather than later, if the reports you have heard of the Witch King's armies prove true."

"So that's all you have to say for yourself?" snapped Gandalf, his eyebrows bristling as he abandoned any restraints on his fiery temper. "And what other platitudes have you to offer me, before your busy schedule requires you to be elsewhere?"

"Only this," replied Saruman with a grim smile. "You pretend that you are weak, and that you would prefer not to face the Witch King alone. But I deem you are stronger than you know – or, perhaps, stronger than you wish _me_ to know. For beyond any doubt you have at your disposal the means to put paid to the Witch King of Angmar, should he dare show his face to you."

And with that cryptical remark, Saruman turned and spurred his horse toward the Fords, plunging into the foaming waters as he began his long ride eastward through Gondor to the distant lands beyond.

Gandalf stood still for some time, leaning on his staff as he stared grimly at the fast-shrinking form of Saruman. When at length the White Wizard had disappeared from view, Gandalf let out a long, heavy sigh, muttering darkly into the bushy depths of his beard. Then, as the last mists of morning departed, and the rising Sun revealed the snowy slopes of the Misty Mountains to the north, Gandalf began to trudge forward, making his way to the thin ebon spire on the horizon that marked the ancient tower of Orthanc.


	2. The Witch King's Command

**The Witch King's Command**

As the pale Sun rose above the peaks of the Misty Mountains, the dull leaden skies brought a glimmer of light to the valley of Carn Dum, the stronghold of the Witch King of Angmar. The dull red walls of the valley, over a thousand feet high, encompassed a sea of hundreds upon hundreds of tents of hide and huts of stone more than a mile across. Trails of smoke issued forth from many of the tents, from fires to warm the Hill-men of Hithaeglir and Rhudaur amid the chill of winter. No smoke issued from the huts, for the black blood of Orcs defies extremes of cold and heat, and they need no fires for their foul meats. Here and there, fur-covered Hill-men, bearing clubs of wood, and iron-clad Orcs bearing wicked-looking spears stood guard along the margins of the camp. Above their huts rose many black standards, bearing the ghastly design of the Witch King; a grinning skull, its fangs long and sharp.

Some distance beyond the encampment rose the sheer black Tower of Carn Dum, which had been carved from solid blocks of basalt dragged from many miles distant by hapless slaves. Soaring some hundreds of feet into the sky, the narrow, peaked gate of the tower was guarded by two-dozen monstrous Trolls, their stony hides protected from the Sun by dark enchantments. The sheer, glossy walls of the tower, glimmering with a pale, sickly light, rose to its pinnacled turret, from which rose many jagged spires, forming as it were a crown upon the head of the sinister tower. A single arched window above a balcony was carved in the turret – the lair of the Witch King himself.

Urthel and Ivrin, their beige tunics and pantaloons concealed by cloaks of light grey, crouched in the snows of the barren hillside, peering over the crest at the horrors of the valley below. Rangers of Arnor, they had journeyed a long and weary way from Fornost across the frozen wastes of the North, braving the snows of late winter and early spring to bring news of the Witch King and his deeds. Ever since rumours of a massing army had reached King Arvedui on the New Year's day, he had known that the Witch King surely planned to unleash his final assault upon the beleaguered land of Arnor that very spring, and sent spies to report on the doings of his enemies. Sometimes the spies had returned, though more often they had not.

Uthel and Ivrin were the latest brave Rangers who had volunteered to make the perilous journey to Angmar, traveling on foot so as to avoid the weight of pottage for horses, seeking for a sign that the Witch King was at last ready to unleash his army. That day could not be far distant, for it was now mid-February, and even in this far northern land the thaw of spring was but a few weeks distant. Once the snows had melted sufficiently, the way would be clear for the Witch King and his minions to march on Fornost, and deal with the Dunedain of the North once and for all.

"Hark ye, Uthel," said Ivrin, gesturing with a gloved hand as his grey eyes focused on the Tower. "Carakel the Silver has departed! You had the night watch; how could you have missed his going?"

"Bah," spat Uthel, wiping his fist across his black beard. "That beast might be large in bulk, but he is stealthy, and the night was black as pitch."

"A great Dragon such as Carakel surely could not be utterly silent," frowned Ivrin, shaking his head. "But what's done is done. I wonder, why would the Witch King dispatch the mightiest guardian of his front door?"

"Who knows the thoughts of that black sorcerer?" asked Uthel, who failed to hide a shiver; whether from the cold, or the thought of the Witch King, Ivrin could not tell.

"Aye, that's true enough," acknowledged Ivrin. He knew the mysterious being who called himself the Witch King had plagued the North for seven-hundred years, ever since his arrival from the unknown East. A sworn enemy of the Dunedain – though no Man knew the reasons for his enmity – he had harried the Men of Arnor for centuries, bit by bit carving into their domain until there was but little left. The Kings of the North had lost their own landholdings beyond a day's ride of Fornost even before the Witch King's arrival, but had still retained their nominal sovereignty over all the wide lands of Arthedain and Cardolan in the west of Arnor. In recent years, though, the northlands been all but abandoned by the Dunedain, who had been slain by plague and famine, or fled for the warmer and safer climes of the South. Now the Witch King's rule stretched from Angmar and Hithaeglir through Rhudaur, and as far west as the Icebay of Forochel. Beyond the lands about Fornost, only the simple Men of Bree and the Hobbits of the Shire still swore fealty to King Arvedui – and those kindly folk were of little use in war.

"So many," frowned Uthel, his brown eyes squinting as he made his count. "Surely ten times ten-thousand, just as was reported. How can we hope to stand against them?"

"We have the Elves on our side, thank the Valar," replied Ivrin. "Two-thousand longbows, at the least."

"At the most, you mean," said Uthel grimly. "And not enough even were it three times as many. Unless Gondor comes to our aid, this will be a spring of little hope for we Dunedain."

"Then let us pray Gondor answers our plea, though goodness knows she has her own troubles," nodded Ivrin.

They fell silent for a time, as the Sun rose higher in the sky; a pale orb veiled by the heavy clouds of the northlands. Then, after perhaps an hour, a terrible beating of drums and braying of trumpets sounded from the Tower, and was echoed from the encampment. With astonishing speed, the Hill-men and Orcs streamed out of their huts and tents, like a swarm of ants, and mustered in the broad, muddied parade field that lay before the Tower.

"Hello," muttered Uthel. "Now perhaps we'll have something to report."

"Hush!" whispered Ivrin, pointing at the high window of the Tower. "Look! It is _him_!"

The Rangers' keen eyes discerned a small, dark form emerge on the balcony. The drumming and trumpeting came to an abrupt halt, and a deathly silence fell over the savage throng below. Then, at length, the figure spoke, and Uthel and Ivrin's blood ran cold at the sound of that hollow, sepulchral voice, which echoed across the length and breadth of Carn Dum.

"Warriors of Angmar!" cried the Witch King – for in truth it was he.

"Warriors of Angmar!" he repeated, "At last, the hour draws nigh! The Doom of Arnor is at hand!"

Horrid cries and screeches echoed from the mob, as the Orcs and Trolls and Hill-men cursed their their hated foes. The Witch King allowed their blood-lust to grow for some minutes, before he signaled that he wished to speak again. All at once they fell silent, as he prepared to stoke the fires of their hatred.

"How long have they mocked you?" droned the Witch King. "How long have the arrogant Dunedain of the North spat upon the brave Hill-men of Hithaeglir and Rhudaur, and slain out of hand the clever Orcs of the mountains?"

The mob cursed and screamed now, boiling with indignation at the false pride and haughtiness of their enemies. The Witch King again gestured for them to be silent.

"For long years have they done so," he hissed. "Yea, for centuries upon centuries. But no longer. Now you shall have your revenge!"

The savage warriors tramped their booted-feet and bit their spears and shields, barely able to contain their fury.

"March forth!" cried the Witch King. "March to Fornost, and turn that hated pile of the Dunedain into their tomb! DEATH TO THE MEN OF ARNOR!"

"Death! Death! Death!" screamed the mob, their frenzy unleashed in an awesome wave of fury as they clashed their spears and clubs, slavering for the blood of the Dunedain. Then the drums beat and the trumpets brayed again, and their wheeled about, picking up their standards as they marched through the encampment, the first steps on their long journey to the stronghold of their foes.

"Already doom is upon us!" cried Ivrin. "The Witch King has not even waited for the the snows to melt! He would willingly sacrifice many of the poorly-garbed Hill-men to frostbite and exposure, so terrible is his malice towards us."

"He cares not a scrap for their lives, the poor fools," replied Uthel, shaking his bearded head. "They are but his pawns. Come! We must flee this land at once, and make haste. We are but lightly burdened, and can cross the long leagues from here to Fornost faster than our foes. Let us fly!"

"Well spoken," grunted Ivrin, as they turned and slid down the snows of the hillside, their feet finding better traction as they reached the stony floor of the valley-bottom below. For some time they ran down the length of the valley, making for the broad swath of level ground that lay between the outliers of the Misty Mountains and the distant fells of the North Downs. They knew they would have to be stealthy indeed, if they were to avoid detection by the scouts of the Witch King's army on the barren wastes of the plain.

All of a sudden, a shadow fell across them, as if the Sun had suddenly been blotted out. They stopped and looked above, wondering if a mass of storm clouds had dulled the Sun's rays, heralding a snowstorm or frozen rain.

Then, they heard the beating of monstrous wings and wheeled about, only now seeing the doom that fell upon them from the leaden skies. Uthel and Ivrin screamed in horror, fumbling for their swords in a last, useless gesture of defiance against their terrible foe…


	3. The Siege of Fornost

**The Siege of Fornost**

"What kind of feast is this, brother?" laughed Prince Galdor, his blue eyes glinting mischievously. "We can't be short on ale, barely an hour into the festivities! Order the butler down to the cellars, and tell him to roll up the barrels forthwith!"

"Always thinking with you stomach, dear Galdor," replied Prince Aranath, shouting to make himself heard above the din of revelry. "But our stores of ale run low, and the barrels we have ordered from the Bree-town have not yet arrived here at Fornost. Even we Princes cannot conjure up ale with a snap of our fingers."

"No matter," observed Galdor, between draughts from his silvered flagon. "Let us drink while we may! What is the purpose of life, if not to take pleasure from it?"

"Some might wonder," replied Aranarth, his grey eyes falling as he felt his spirits dampen. The first of March, heralding the approaching spring was always a time for festivities, but he knew well that this feast-day was not like the others he had celebrated in his thirty-six years under the Sun. Indeed, it might well be their last such revelry within the solid walls of Fornost, before duty called them to the field of battle. They had not received any reports from their scouts for some days, but they knew well enough that their ancient foe, the Witch King of Angmar, was preparing for war against them.

Aranarth let his mind wander, looking way from his brother at their high table, and over the length of the Great Hall of Fornost, a stone-walled, vaulted room fully two-hundred feet in length, warmed by roaring fires from many hearths carved into the thick walls, and full of long trestle-tables. Tonight, those tables were heavily laden with plates of food and flagons of ale, and at them sat dozens of young nobles, gentlemen and ladies of Arnor, eagerly enjoying their revelry and merriment. The Hall echoed with the buzz of their gossip and the ringing of their laughter, as they recalled many happy days from years past, and whispered hopefully that perhaps the rumoured storms of war would pass them by for a season, allowing them a spring of ease and joy.

That was part of Arnor's problem, thought Aranarth, as he frowned in contemplation. Too many of its nobles sought only tranquility and comfort, looking to their own ends, when vigilance and war-craft should ever have been upmost in their thoughts. He was not sure whether more fault lay with the men, whose business should have been war, or the women, who should have strengthened the resolve of their beaus and husbands where it wavered, rather than turning their thoughts to home and hearth. But neither seemed willing to face the harsh realities of their age. It fell to the poor commoners to do the hard work of defending the shrinking realm, while the nobles lived for today, and laughed at prophecies of doom and ruin. "Has not Arnor stood for over two-thousand years?" they would say. "And so shall it stand for another two-thousand, Witch King or no!" they would finish, with a snap of their fingers and a bemused smile.

Galdor, who was Aranarth's younger brother, was a typical example of the breed. He had passed but twenty summers, and was radiant with the first flush of youth, as if he were still a mere stripling. He wore his long brown hair in scented curls, and favoured brightly-coloured robes and tunics of the finest cloth. He played at war in the sparring yards, but it was clear he had no concept of it. To him it was but a game, and the Witch King a bogey from ancient tales, whom he might personally put to flight with a gallant laugh and a single stroke from his gleaming blade.

Aranarth sighed, and stared at his reflection on the polished surface of his silver flagon. His own face showed the slightest trace of lines of care, but still looked only a little older than his brother's. Yet that was no wonder. Their father, King Arvedui, was full one-hundred and ten years old, though his black hair had barely begun to turn silver, and his face was still smooth. For the blood of Numenor was strong in their line, directly descended from Elendil the High-King of old, and his eldest son, the legendary Isildur himself. While others descended from Numenor, even the royal house of Gondor, had long mingled their blood with the Men of Middle Earth, the royal blood of Numenor ran nearly true in the veins of the Kings and Prices of the Dunedain of Arnor. Thus Arvedui, who had already lived longer than all but the most fortunate of ordinary Men, looked not a day older than a Man of fifty years, and had passed barely half the span of years allotted to Men of his kindred.

"Why so glum, brother?" laughed Galdor, hitting Aranarth in the shoulder of his grey tunic. "You look as if you're attending a funeral, not a feast."

"Mayhap I am," replied Aranarth glumly. "And you might be concerned yourself, if you were married as am I. I have my Princess to think of, not merely myself."

"Faugh!" snorted Galdor, with a wave of his slender hand. "Half the men here are married, and they're all in better spirits than you. Admit it, Aranarth, you're just an old sour-puss!"

"Old, am I?" replied Aranarth, with the trace of a mischievous smile. "You turn twenty-one soon, and then our father will be on the lookout for a suitable bride for you. No more flirting with the scullery maids for our gallant Prince Galdor!"

"That cannot be!" cried Galdor, in mock horror. "But if what you say is true, I must drown my sorrows in drink. Hence my call for more ale!"

Aranarth was about to respond, when he was suddenly interrupted.

"What's this?" boomed a great voice from behind them. "Feasting and drinking, when you ought to be at your studies, or out in the sparring yards?"

"My liege!" exclaimed the princes, dropping their flagons and jumping to their feet, their hands snapping to their breasts in crisp salutes. The whole throng suddenly ceased their gamboling and likewise snapped to attention, as they realized that they now stood in the presence of their King, who in recent years had but rarely attended feasts. Arvedui, garbed in robes of deep red, and wearing a cloth-of-sliver cape, stood well overl over six feet tall. His grey eyes and dark hair were reflected in the visage of Aranarth, while Galdor looked more like their mother Queen Firiel. The assembled nobles and their ladies gave a cheer and a salute for the King, but he waved at them abstractedly, and allowed them to turn back to their feasting as he directed his words to his sons alone.

"What would your mother say?" chided Arvedui, in mock seriousness. "She's already abed, as should you be if you're not doing any useful work. Especially you, young master Galdor."

"Oh! I'll be twenty-one and of age in two months, lest you forget!" insisted Galdor, pouting slightly.

"Ah, yes. I had forgotten," sighed the King. Then he turned to Aranarth. "In any case, I must have words with you, my son. In my study, and forthwith."

Aranarth brushed a lock of dark hair from his eyes, and replied "Of course, father." Bidding farewell to Galdor, who waved at him lazily, he followed the King through the oaken doors that lay beyond the high table, down a long, torch-lit corridor, and up a flight of stairs. The King turned to a door flanked by two steel-armoured guardsmen, who saluted before opening it for their liege. Arvedui stepped through, and Aranarth followed, closing the door behind him. His father strode across the cozy, wood-paneled room, stoked the fire with an iron, and then sat in the high seat behind his heavy oaken desk, gesturing for the Prince to be seated in one of the chairs facing it.

"What news, father?" asked Aranarth.

"No news, my lad," frowned Arvedui, running a thumb over his smooth-shaven chin. "And that's what worries me."

"Still no reports from our scouts in Angmar?" replied Aranarth.

"No, not from Rangers Uthel and Ivrin," said Arvedui. "We've not heard from them in six weeks. But that is not my chief concern."

"What troubles you, my liege?" asked the Prince.

"It is this," replied the King, sipping from a golden cup of mulled wine before completing his sentence. "In recent days, _none_ of the scouts we have dispatched into the lands nearby, into the North Downs or the Weather Hills, have returned. They have gone out, but they have not come back."

Aranarth frowned. After some moments, he said, "All our Rangers are well-trained, father. They would not fail to return unless some grave peril preventing them from so doing."

"Yes, but what peril?" asked the King. "Is it the vanguard of the Witch King's army at last, or some other foe? Some new monstrosity conjured up in the dungeons of Carn Dum, and sent to harass our realm? I must know, my son. I cannot lead us without information, and I need my scouts to provide that information."

"I understand, father," sighed Aranarth. "I will lead a large detachment of Rangers and Cavalry into the wilds tomorrow – mounted and heavily armed. We will learn what has happened to our scouts, if we can."

"I knew I could rely on you, my boy," smiled Arvedui, reaching over the table to pat his son on the shoulder. "You have always been my rock, ever since your early youth. Not to gainsay your brother, of course. He is a good lad, though…"

"He is not a man of war, father," replied Aranarth. "Our mother has spoiled him, as well you know."

"Yes, I know it," sighed Arvedui. "But what can be done? By the time I realized how she was indulging him, it was too late. At least he is useful for keeping the people's spirits high."

"Keeping them distracted from their proper business, you mean," replied Aranarth.

"Now, now," frowned the King. "Don't be too hard on young Galdor. He is your brother, after all."

"I know that, father," replied the Prince. "And I do love him. But there are so many burdens on me of late; the welfare of Galdor, of my Rangers, of all our people at Fornost. I have been married to Princess Vana for a year now, and yet have spent but little time with her."

"I understand, my boy," replied Arvedui gravely. "But you are my eldest son, and my heir. Galdor does not have to bear the burdens that you do, because he will not someday have to bear the Sceptre of Arnor as will you. And think you that my duties sit lightly with me? Or that they sat lightly upon Elendil the Tall and Isildur the Brave?"

"No, my liege, of course not," replied Aranarth. "Forgive me; I do not mean to complain."

"No harm done," smiled Arvedui. "I know you mean well."

"With permission, father, I should seek my bed now," replied Aranarth, standing up from his chair. "I must needs get some rest, if I am to lead a scouting party first thing tomorrow."

"By all means," smiled the King. "Good night, and fare you well!"

* * *

Aranarth rose from his bed at the crack of dawn. He gazed at the long, tawny hair of his wife Vana, who still lay asleep on their down-feathered bed, and kissed her gently on the forehead. Then he dressed himself in a woolen jerkin, leathern pantaloons and tunic of beige and a woolen cloak of forest green. He quickly made his way down to the kitchens, taking for his breakfast a loaf of bread, a portion of cheese, and a handful of dried fruit, washed down with a mug of cider. After his meager repast, he proceeded down a stone-flagged corridor, and up a flight of stairs to the battlements of the highest tower of the Citadel of Fornost.

As he stepped into the chill air of morning and strode to the edge of the parapet, the guards on duty briefly saluted him before returning to their watch. Above the battlements flew the banner of Arnor; a white, five-pointed star, on a field of cloth of silver. Looking down from the grey-stoned walls of the Citadel, he gazed across the snowy courtyard, the inner wall, and the moat that separated the King's estate from the town of the common citizens. Their modest, half-timbered houses of two or three stories stretched a half-mile on all sides about the Citadel, hemmed in by the outer walls of the city; the crowded home of some twenty-thousand citizens. Puffs of smoke blew up from their chimneys of red brick, and the cobbled streets began to stir to life as the most diligent citizens began to go about their business of the day.

Beyond the outer walls, Aranarth had a clear view of the sweep of the countryside for miles around. To the west, under a light veil of snow, the land stretched away in level plains, full of fields, hedgerows, and the cottages of those farmers brave enough to dwell outside the city walls. This pastoral scene faded into moors and marshes that stretched towards the horizon, in the direction of Lake Evendim and the ruins of Annuminas; lands that had once lain under the plow, but had long since been abandoned. Beyond those lands, though too distant to be seen, lay the Blue Mountains and the realm of Lindon. That realm lay under the dominion of the ancient Elf-Lord, Cirdan of Mithlond, who despite his apparent distaste for the Men of Isildur's House had proven on many occasions to be a firm ally of Arnor in its struggle against the Witch King.

To the south, the land was also level, but the fields and hedgerows were bisected by a broad, straight road, flagged with light-grey bricks of limestone, that traveled arrow-straight towards the southern horizon. This was the great North-South road, of which Fornost was the northern terminus. Following that road, a Man would pass the eaves of the Chetwood through the town of Bree, some hundred miles distant, and then across countless leagues of empty lands, and the fords of Tharbad and Angren, before crossing the frontiers of the mighty realm of Gondor, the South Kingdom of Numenor-in-exile. There it turned east, and ran for many more miles until it reached the fabled fortress of Minas Anor and the nearby city of Osgiliath, the least suburb of which exceeded the entire population of Fornost by tens of thousands of citizens. It was from Gondor and its vast armies that the Men of Arnor hoped chiefly for aid, should they find themselves once again at war – even though, Aranarth knew well, King Earnil II had recently spurned their entreaties. Gondor, after all, was constantly at war with savage Easterlings and Southrons, and the sly and treacherous Men of Umbar.

To the east, the land rose up swiftly into the icy heights of the Weather Hills, above which rose the Sun amid a sky full of wooly clouds. He could not see beyond the wind-swept summits of those hills, though he knew beyond them in the land of Rhudaur lay many barren moors and dark woods that in recent years had been infested by the Witch King's foul creatures; Trolls, and Werewolves, and other fell beasts besides. But should a Man dare those perils and live, he would in time reach the foothills of the Misty Mountains, and the house of Elrond at Rivendell. Elrond Half-Elven was Arnor's friend in the East, and indeed he was distantly akin to the Men of both the royal houses of Arnor and Gondor. He had long proved an invaluable ally in the struggle against the forces of darkness.

Finally, and reluctantly, Aranarth turned his gaze to the north. The rocky slopes of the North Downs rose up from a broad plain, and he could see no farther over their summits than he could over the Weather Hills to the east. Yet he knew that northward and eastward over many long leagues lay the dreaded land of Angmar, and the fortress of Carn Dum, stronghold of the Witch King and his minions. It was from the north that the attack would come, when the Witch King chose to unleash his armies against the Arnor-men.

"I knew I'd find you hiding up here!" cried a voice from behind Aranarth – a deep yet slightly shrill voice that he knew as well as his own.

"Indeed, mother, it appears you have found me once again," replied Aranarth, turning to the Queen.

"You sound disappointed," frowned Queen Firiel. She was tall, and garbed in a flowing velvet dress of sable, embroidered with many glittering gems. She held an ermine wrap about her shoulders, to ward off the chill of late winter. Her long brown hair, tinged with grey, framed a face that had once been amongst the fairest in the realm, though much to her chagrin it had lately been etched with lines of age. Her pale blue eyes bored into Aranarth, as if she sought to peer into the depths of his mind.

"I'm not disappointed, mother," replied Aranarth. "It was merely an observation."

"Don't be flippant with me!" she snapped. "You know full well why I'm here. Your father told me every word you spoke against dear Prince Galdor last night!"

"Did he?" asked Aranarth, glancing about for some route of escape. He noted to his consternation that his mother stood squarely in front of the only door leading down from the battlements of the tower, which meant that he would be forced to endure the embarrassment of a tongue-lashing from her while in the presence of the stolid guardsmen. The Queen invariably treated guards and servants as if they did not exist.

"In the name of the Valar, mother…" began Aranarth, but he was interrupted by the slap of a heavy hand across his face, which left his skin ringing with pain for some moments.

"Don't blaspheme!" she cried, shaking a long finger as she scolded him. "And pay attention when I'm talking to you! There'll be no escape for you until I've had my say."

"By all means, mother," replied Aranarth, silently praying that the Valar might someday strike her mute.

The Queen stared at him for some moments, frowning. "I'll tell you your trouble," she huffed. "Instead of being raised properly by me, you were tutored at the hands of that so-called Wizard."

"You mean Gandalf the Grey, the King's most trusted councilor?" asked Aranarth.

"Yes, I mean him!" replied the Queen scornfully. "Shabby little man, dressed in shapeless old robes that are hardly better than rags. Who does he think _he_ is, I wonder? He's older than the hills it seems, though he hasn't a drop of royal or even noble blood in him, and yet he strides around our castle as if he owned the place. You should _hear_ some of the things he's said to you father the King, scolding him as if he were an arrant child! If I were your father I'd give him twenty lashes and send him packing."

"You might try," smiled Aranarth. "Whether you'd succeed…"

"Don't interrupt!" snapped the Queen. "In any case, we're off topic now. What I mean to say to you is this; don't ever insult my Galdor in front of your father, or anyone else ever again!"

"I didn't insult him, mother," insisted Aranarth.

"Don't lie to me!" she cried, pointing her finger at him. "You said he was not a man of war, and that I had spoiled him. Who do you think _you_ are, to gainsay how I've raised by darling boy?"

"I'm your son too, you know," noted Aranarth.

"Then behave like one, and obey your mother!" replied the Queen primly. "And don't ever question how I've raised Galdor, especially not in front of your father. Your father left your upbringing to that infernal Wizard of yours; but Galdor is my own, my pride and joy. To insult Galdor is to insult your own mother, and to offend the royal dignity of the Queen of Arnor. Do you understand?"

Aranarth said nothing. She scowled, her pale blue eyes gazing coldly at him. "He is your brother, your own flesh and blood," she continued. "Why can you not love him with all your heart, as do I? Instead you insult him and belittle him behind his back, every chance you get!"

"Of course I love him, mother!" snapped Aranarth. "But that doesn't mean I have to cater to his every whim, like…"

"Like what?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Like I do, you were about to say? Well, I'll not hear any more of it. Go about your business, and leave Galdor's well-being to me. At least through my kindness he knows that someone cares for him, poor lad."

"As you wish, mother," sighed Aranarth. He dutifully kissed her proffered hand and then, ignoring the frowns on the weather-beaten faces of the guardsmen, made a rapid exit down the stairs and toward the armoury.

* * *

The Sun had risen high in the sky, and it was well past the fourth hour since dawn by the time Arnarth and his hand-picked party of two-score Rangers and Light Cavalry scouts had reached the dreary tablelands of the North Downs. The rolling terrain, covered with a thin layer of wind-sculpted snow, and dotted with frozen tarns and pools, did not afford a far view in any direction. Now and again a curlew gave an eerie cry, but apart from this there was no noise other than the footfalls of Aranarth's horses and the moaning of the East Wind over the moors.

They were searching for any signs of the scouting parties that had not returned, but so far they had found nothing. The missing scouts seemed simply to have vanished into thin air. The Rangers oft halted the party, dismounting to examine some broad depressions in the snow, only to return to their steeds in frustration. The Cavalrymen seemed bored with the whole affair, as if it were beneath their dignity to act as guards to a pack of Rangers – who, for the most part, stood at the bottom rung of the ladder of Arnor's military.

Aranarth adjusted the weight of his quiver on his back, and frowned grimly. He was only half paying attention to the events about him, for he was still angry at his mother's behaviour of a few hours before. Did she not realize how inappropriate it was for her to scold the Crown Prince in front of guardsmen of the Citadel, as if he were still a child? But she had ever been blind to the commoners about her, and to the means by which men could be motivated or demoralized. Her concerns started and ended with herself, Aranarth knew – Galdor was to her simply a prized possession. Hence her coddling him, when instead she should have girded him for war.

"Your highness!" cried one of the Rangers. "Prince Aranarth!"

"Eh?" asked the Prince, looking upwards. The other men had all halted their steeds, and he had inadvertently ridden some distance beyond them. "What is it, sergeant?" he asked, wheeling round and facing them.

"Your highness, can you not hear?" asked the man. "Listen!"

Aranarth did listen, and then he heard it – a low, ominous rumbling, almost like thunder, from over a crest of the downs far to the north. A curious sound indeed, given the frozen air. It was too early in the year for thunderstorms, and the sound was too regular in pattern. Where had he heard such a rythym before?

"Footfalls!" he gasped, his face pale with shock. "Tens of thousands of them! By the Valar…"

So distracted was Aranarth that he did not notice the moors were suddenly veiled in shadow, as if the Sun had been dimmed. Suddenly, his horse screamed, rearing back and throwing him off his saddle as its cries joined those of its panicked fellows. Aranarth sailed through the air, hearing the horrified cries and shouts of his men, before landing headfirst in a clutch of ice-frosted brambles that choked a narrow gully. In an instant he was rendered insensate as his skull struck the icy ground. Thus, he never heard the beating of gigantic wings, nor saw that which caused his Rangers and Cavalrymen to cry and shriek with terror…

* * *

"A fine view, is it not, father?" asked Prince Galdor, sniffing at a pomade he held under his nose. He was standing on the battlements of the very tower on which Prince Aranarth and Queen Firiel had stood some hours before. He often went to this spot to take in the view, when the noonday Sun shone clear and bright.

"Aye, it is," replied King Arvedui abstractedly, shielding his eyes with his hand as he searched along the crest of the North Downs. He rarely climbed the high tower these days, but was keen to see if there was any sign of Aranarth and his scouting party. Already he had begun to worry about him, even though he was not scheduled to return to Fornost until sunset. Aranarth was clever, strong and brave, that much the King knew; the ideal Man to choose for a dangerous mission. But what if he met the same unknown fate as that which had befallen the missing scouts before him? Arvedui understood well enough that he could not cosset his heir as Queen Firiel cosseted his younger son, but even so he began to wonder if he should have sent him on the mission at all.

"I say, father,"exclamed Galdor, with a frown that rarely appear on his serene features. "What's that noise?"

"Hmm?" asked the King, his eyes still scanning the horizon.

"That din, father," sniffed the Prince. "That unearthly racket, away up by the North Downs. I know I'm much younger than you, but surely you can hear it?"

Arvedui cupped his hands behind his ears. Galdor almost laughed at the gesture, though he retained enough presence of mind not to mock openly his King.

At first, Arvedui heard nothing. But then, it became clear; a rumbling like that of thunder, yet as regular as the tramping of an army on parade. And now new sounds were being added to it; deep drummings, and brazen peals as if from trumpets, sailed along the air from over the crest of the North Downs.

His face suddenly pale, Arvedui suddenly shifted his hands back over his eyes, staring desperately at the distant crest of the Downs. Then he saw what had made those noises, as did the Watchmen in the towers of Fornost, who began to sound the alarum on their silvered trumpets.

"Look!" cried the King, his arm thrusting toward the Downs with a quavering finger. "Already _he_ has come! Alas, too soon, too soon!"

"Who is 'he', father?" asked Galdor, somewhat petulantly. Then he looked in the direction toward which his father pointed, and his jaw fell open as he dropped his pomade to the ground.

Along the crest of the Downs, a thin black line more than a mile across had appeared, a line bristling with spears and banners – the army of the Witch King of Angmar!

"My son, my son…" gasped Arvedui, steadying himself against the parapet.

"I'm here, father," said Galdor in a trembling voice, holding onto his father's forearm.

"Eh? Yes, of course," said the King distractedly, still gazing at the Downs. "If only Gandalf were here…why did he have to leave, just when we have greatest need of his aid? He hoped that two Wizards would fight in defence of Fornost, but now there will be none…"

"We don't need him, father," frowned Galdor. "The Queen has long said our own Men are more than enough to fight against the savages of Angmar, and…"

"The Queen knows nothing!" snapped Arvedui. "Let her stick to her needlework. We Men must carry the day now – and by ill fortune, we must do so without the aid of Wizards, or even of Elves, no matter how few our numbers." He pulled himself up to his full height, his resolve returning now that he had steeled himself for the battle that lay ahead.

"What must I do, father?" asked Galdor, who hoped that he at least appeared brave and eager, for all his pallor and trembling lip.

"You must do your duty, my son," replied Arvedui firmly. "Come with me to the armory at once. We will suit-up, and then take command of the defence of the city."

"Where is Aranarth?" asked Galdor. "If only we had his strong arm…"

"He is on another mission, and cannot aid us," replied the King swiftly. "You and I are here, and we must be enough."

"I understand, father," replied Galdor doubtfully.

"May we succor you , my liege?" asked one of the guards on the battlements, staring at the King and his son with concern.

"Nay!" cried the King. "Stay here and do as you must! Continue to sound the alarm, and spy out the progress of the enemy's army! I only hope all those who dwell outside the walls can make it safely inside the city, before we must close the Outer Gates of Fornost.

* * *

As the cries and trumpets of alarum sounded throughout the city, the panicked citizens raced from their workplaces to their own homes, clearing the streets for the soldiers of the King's army. As soon as they heard the alarum, the farmers in the cottages outside the walls dropped their handiwork, grabbed their wives and children, and ran for dear life, desperate to reach the gates of Fornost before they were closed shut. The gates of the city only faced West and South – to the North and East the walls were smooth and impassable.

Meanwhile, the vanguard of the Witch King's army left behind the North Downs and raced over the plains – hideous spear-wielding Orcs mounted on Wargs, giant wolves the size of horses. The Warg-riders scoured the countryside, slaying farm-animals and burning cottages, and slaying and devouring farmers too when they could catch them.

Behind these hideous beasts surged the main force of the army. As it marched down the slopes of the hills, it formed into two broad columns; that to the east consisting of spear-bearing, iron-armoured Orcs, and that to the west consisting of club-wielding, fur-clad Hill-men of Hithaeglir and Rhudaur. Guarding the flanks of each column were Trolls from the Ettenmoors, their thick hides protected by the Witch King's sorcery so that they would not turn to stone under the light of the Sun. Each Troll bore a tree-trunk in its crude paws as a club, and their stony hides were naked, for they needed no armour to defend themselves from the puny spears and arrows of Men. By the first hour past Noon, the last trail of surviving refugees fled inside the West and outh Gates of the city, whose iron doors snapped shut with resounding metallic clangs. Nipping at their heels were the Warg-riders, who screeched and snarled at the soldiers on the battlements before wheeling about and retreating out of arrowshot. Not all retreated soon enough, and the archers on the walls cheered with joy each time they brought down a fearsome Warg and its vile Orc with well-aimed arrows.

But such victories were fleeting, and the guardsmen of Fornost son realized the enormity of their peril. The Witch King's army was vast – at least a hundred-thousand warriors, over ten times as many as those of Arnor. The columns of Orcs and Hill-men snaked around the city, forming a broad circle that encompassed its walls, just beyond arrowshot. They planted in the ground their hideous black banners, bearing the pale skull design of the Witch King, and began hurling blood-curdling threats and vicious jibes at the Arnor-men. Meanwhile, the Trolls stationed themselves some distance before the West and South Gates, also remaining out of arrowshot. Acting on orders from the King Arvedui, the Arnor-men ceased firing arrows at their foes until they came within range. But the Witch King's soliders, though they chanted and jeered and drummed and trumpeted, did not attack. It was almost as if they were waiting for something. But, waiting for what?

Then a shadow fell across the South Gate and the Men of the garrison looked upward, crying out with horror and despair. They had seen _him – _and knew that their doom was at hand. For like a vast missile launched from a catapult, Carakel the Silver descended upon the Gate from the heights of the Sky!

Carakel's vast, bat-like wings were spread wide open, spanning more than one-hundred and fifty feet. He was more than two-hundred feet long, from the arched nostrils of his snout to the barbed tip of his slender tail. His entire body was covered in a glistening sheen of silvery metal, the shards of countless pieces of Mithril that he had found and attached to his leathery hide over ages upon ages. No arrow or spear known to Man or even Elf could penetrate that hide – for Mithril was harder than adamant. His narrow, slanted eyes, which lay at the base of his long, spiny ears, shone with a hellish glow as of pale fire. A Cold Drake of Forodwaith from beyond the Grey Mountains, he had aligned himself with the Witch King of Angmar to destroy their common, ancient foe – the hated Men of the West.

The guards at the South Gate let up a futile round of arrows, which bounced harmlessly off Carakel's invulnerable hide as if they were matchsticks. Then, with a mighty roar that shook the earth itself, the Dragon smashed the full span of his body broadside into the Gate!

The iron doors of the Gate were flattened in an instant, and the heavy stones of the walls were smashed to pieces, as if they were made of children's building blocks. The Men on the gates were either crushed beneath the Dragon's vast bulk, or hurled through their air, their broken bodies smashed against the walls of the city. With an evil laugh, Carakel surged up from the ruin, his sinuous body moving with a speed incredible for his vast bulk. He crashed through the clustered houses of Fornost, dashing them to pieces with his tail, crushing them underfoot with his mighty heels, and slaying those citizens who survived the onslaught with pale clouds of poisonous Dragon's Breath.

In his wake surged the Trolls, bearing their tree-trunk clubs. With ferocious roars they scrambled up the broken walls of the city by the ruined South Gate, running along the parapets and slaying the astonished guardsmen with abandon. Their arrows and spears proved almost as useless against the Trolls' stony hides as against the Dragon's scales, and they soon realized they were doomed unless they made a hasty retreat. Flying from the walls, they ran through the winding streets of the city, only to find themselves entangled in fleeing mobs of citizens, who had abandoned their homes in terror at the sight of the ravages of Carakel, and were now desperately seeking the Citadel in the vain hope that it could offer them safety from the Dragon's assault. They soon found themselves harried from behind by hordes of Orcs and Hill-men, who had also surged through the broken South Gate, and now were fanning through the streets of Fornost, slaying all in their path, heedless of peril from the rampaging Dragon and his clouds of poisonous breath.

* * *

Decked out in his gilded armour, King Arvedui stood on the battlements of one of the lesser towers of the Citadel, tears streaming down his cheeks as he witnessed the destruction of Fornost and the deaths of countless thousands of his soldiers and citizens. With no warning of the assault, and without the aid of Wizardly or Elven magic, his Men were sitting ducks before the fiendish Dragon. The vast hordes of Trolls, Orcs and Hill-men merely served to hasten to doom of Arnor.

Arvedui knew what he must do, yet he felt ashamed to have failed his ancestors and his people. After enduring for more than two-thousand years, the realm of Arnor, the North Kingdom of Numenor-in-Exile, had reached a sudden and ignominious end. With its capital destroyed and its lands open to invasion, there would be nothing left for the few survivors of the inevitable massacre but to flee into the wilderness, and live like hunted animals for the rest of their lives.

"My liege!" shouted a general who had raced up to the battlements. He was an aging man whose face bore the scars of many skirmishes with Orcs and Hill-men. "My liege!" he repeated. "The situation is desperate! Even were we not so badly outnumbered, we have no means of fighting this foul Dragon! What are your commands?"

"We must retreat," whispered the King wearily, his knuckles turning white as he clenched the stones of the parapet.

"I shall sound the retreat then, sire," nodded the general gravely, as if he knew the inevitability of that order. "Our Men outside the Citadel shall be gathered up inside, along with those citizens we can accommodate in the courtyard."

"No, general," replied the King, unable to look the man in the eyes. "The Citadel will no more withstand the Dragon's assault than did the South Gate. We must retreat – every one of us."

"My liege," said the general, doubt clouding his face. "I don't understand…"

"What is there not to understand?" snapped the King. "Arnor is finished, and Fornost is doomed. There is no safety within these walls, and no hope that more than a handful of us shall survive this carnage. It is every man for himself now!"

"I…I see, my liege," gasped the general, in shock at the King's words. "And, what shall I tell the men?"

"Tell them to run for their lives into the deepest woods," replied the King bitterly. "They should travel only by nightfall, and preferably not when the moon is up. Let them make their way to Mithlond or Rivendell, if they can."

"I…I understand, my liege." He saluted the King mechanically, though his eyes still betrayed his disbelief at what he had just heard.

"Farewell, general," replied the King, as he left the battlements and strode into the depths of the Citadel. "And good luck."

Without further words to the man, the King raced toward the royal chambers, seeking for his wife and his daughter-in-law. He knew his son Galdor was in peril at his post by the Inner Gate, set amid the walls that encompassed the Citadel, but honour obliged him to see first to the safety of his womenfolk.

* * *

"Galdor!" screeched the Queen from the depths of the Citadel courtyard. "Come down here at once!"

"But mother," cried Galdor, shifting awkwardly under the unfamiliar weight of his steel armour as he stared down from the battlements. "My duty is here, with the Men of the garrison!"

"Your duty is to protect your Queen!" she insisted, stamping her foot. "Now get down here this minute!"

Muttering quietly, Galdor nodded, excusing himself from duty, and pretending not to see the sneers of the guardsmen as he left the tower and rushed down the stairs toward the courtyard. When he reached the yard, he dashed toward his mother, who stood wringing her hands.

"A horse, boy!" she cried. "Fetch us a steed from the stables! For it is plain that no one can resist that accursed Dragon. We shall flee via the Postern Gate, and then make for the West Gate of the city. It is a desperate chance, but our only hope is to flee from there into the depths of the countryside."

Galdor nodded grimly – from the inner wall that encompassed the Citadel, he had seen the fall of the South Gate of the outer wall with his own astonished eyes. He rushed to the stables, and returned some moments later bearing a large, dun-coloured stallion. He helped his mother mount the beast, and then climbed up behind her, grabbing the reins and spurring it forward.

"Hurry!" she cried, as the Dragon's earth-shaking roars and fiendish laughter drew ever-closer to the Citadel. "We must fly like the wind!"

"What about father, and sister Vana?" asked Galdor.

"Let your father worry about your sister-in-law!" shouted the Queen. "You worry about me, and about yourself!"

Without further words, Galdor nodded grimly, and then spurred the horse into action. It raced across the courtyard, reaching the narrow Postern Gate that stood along the northwestern section of the inner wall.

"Open in the name of the King!" cried Queen Firiel to the two astonished guards to stood by it the entrance to it. They saluted quickly, and then turned the lever that opened the Gate, just as ordered. Galdor spurred the horse the thick wall that encompassed the Citadel, and rode under the portcullis just as it had finished being draw up by its counterweights. He crossed the narrow bridge that spanned the icy moat, and spurred his horse into the narrow, twisting streets of the city, soon finding himself bogged down in the crowds of panicked civilians desperately trying to escape their doom.

* * *

By the ruins of the South Gate of Fornost, the hordes of ravening Orcs and Wild Men suddenly fell silent, and stood at attention. Through the broken archway passed a solitary figure, mounted on an ebon steed. In the steed's skeletal face were mounted two orbs of pale flame where eyes should have been. The rider himself was garbed from head to toe in glossy sable armour plate, and wore a flowing sable cape. He bore an unadorned sable shield, and a steel longsword hung from an ebon leathern scabbard at his waist. His dark helm was crowned by nine thin, narrow spikes, and bore a smooth faceplate in which were carved nine vertical slits. His face and eyes, however, were invisible – through the silts in his faceplate could be seen only shadow, darker than the blackest midnight.

As the Orcs chewed nervously on their scarred lips, and the Hill-men trembled fearfully, the rider turned in his saddle, and addressed an especially large, hideous Orc who served as an officer and standard-bearer.

"Report," he intoned, in a hollow, sepulchral voice.

"All is going well, my liege," slavered the Orc, his yellow eyes glinting fiercely. "The outer city has fallen, and its inhabitants are being put to the sword. All that remains is to capture the Citadel."

"Carakel the Silver has done well," replied the Witch King – for it was he. "I knew he would be of use. But now he must be restrained. I do not want the Citadel to suffer irreparable damage – for it is to serve as my new capital in the North."

"My liege," bowed the Orc.

The Witch King sniffed the air for several moments, as if searching for something. "Yes, the Worm is near the Citadel now. I must make haste!" He spurred his monstrous steed, which screamed, showering the nearby Orcs with acid foam, before it raced down the broad swath of destruction left in the wake of Carakel the Silver.

* * *

Prince Galdor and the Queen forced their way through the narrow, crowded streets of the city, the Queen often pushing off desperate civilians with her fists as they tried to climb on top of the horse, and speed their escape from the city. Galdor urged the steed through yet another such mob, and then into a square which surrounded a large, stone-flagged well.

Galdor suddenly pulled hard on the steed's reins, bringing it to a halt.

"What are you doing?" cried the Queen. "We cannot stay here. The mob will catch up with us in a moment!"

"Look!" replied Galdor, pointing across the square. The Queen then saw a number of girls and young maidens, who were being harried, slain and ravished by a party of nearly a dozen Orcs and Hill-men.

"I must save them!" cried Prince Galdor, alighting from the steed and drawing his sword.

"What are you talking about?" spat the Queen. "You're supposed to be saving me!"

"You are in less peril than they!" cried Galdor, and his mother shrank back in alarm as she saw the suddenly chivalrous gleam in his eyes. "The blood of Isildur the Brave flows in my veins," he continued, "just as in those of the King and of Aranarth! I shall not leave maidens to face torment and death, when I can save them. Wait here!" And with that he charged across the square, crying "Elendil!" as he attacked the nearest (and very surprised) Orcs.

"Come back, you fool!" hissed the Queen. She felt her horror turn to cold rage, as she realized that for once Prince Galdor would not obey her wishes.

"Curse you!" she cried. "If you will not save your Queen, I will save myself!" Spurring the steed, she charged out of the square, leaving Galdor to battle the Orcs and Hill-men on his own.

She had not gone far before she encountered another mob of frantic civilians, and a large party of Orcs who were hot on their heels, stabbing and slashing at them from behind. Cursing loudly, she wheeled about, driving her steed down a narrow alley as she sought for another route to the West Gate of the City.

Suddenly, her steed screamed loudly and reared up, throwing her from her saddle so that she landed flat on her back. She gasped with pain as the wind was knocked out of her. The buildings around her were shattered in a cloud of wooden splinters and shards of glass, and as she covered her face with her hands she screamed and the many cuts and scrapes they suffered. The earth itself was trembling now, and she pulled herself upright, gazing about dazedly at the ruins of the houses to see what could have caused such damage…

* * *

Galdor had taken the Orcs completely unawares, and slew three of them with his longsword before they could even react. But now the three surviving Orcs, and the six Hill-men who accompanied them, had turned their spears and clubs on him, seeking to slay this impudent whelp and return to their amusements.

"Flee for your lives! Make for the West Gate!" cried Galdor to the maidens, as he parried the spear-thrust of a snarling Orc. The women were not slow to comply, and as he slashed at one of the Hill-men they turned and fled.

There were five Hill-men and three Orcs left now, and they withdrew two paces and circled Galdor warily, now that they realized he would not be as easy a kill as they had expected. Galdor himself was surprised that he had already slain so many of them – he had practiced in the sparring-yards, of course, but this was his first real combat. He only wished that his father and brother could be here to see it, so that they would think more highly of him.

Sensing that the Hill-men feared him more than the Orcs, Galdor rushed at them. They slashed at him with their clubs, but his sword was long and sharp, and the Hill-men appeared to lack even the most basic knowledge of combat tactics, hacking and slashing blindly at him rather than following any system of moves. One, two, three – Galdor slew them in three quick strokes. There were only two Hill-men left now, and they suddenly turned and ran, seeking easier prey than this bold warrior.

Galdor wheeled about, gasping with pain as an Orcish spear crashed against his armoured side. The iron spear could not penetrate the steel plate, but even so he was grievously hurt by the force of the blow. Screaming with a rage that he never ever knew he possessed, Galdor smashed his sword down on the Orc, cleaving him nearly to the breast-bone. He turned and slashed at the spear of the second Orc, disemboweling him before making a mad lunge and his surviving foe. This Orc, its yellow eyes suddenly pale with fear, tried to turn and flee, but Galdor slashed at his neck, and sent his misshapen head flying through the air, trailing a shower of black ichor.

Suddenly exhausted from his exertions, Galdor sank to his knees, seeking to regain his breath. He looked about – the maidens were gone, but so was his mother! Had she been driven off, and would she soon return? He had now idea how he would find her amid the chaos of the streets, but he knew he must try.

Then, he heard the heavy footfalls of a horse not far behind him. Joy rising in his heart, he stood up and wheeled about - and found himself staring face-to-face at the Witch King of Angmar…

* * *

Still in a daze, the Queen looked about, desperate to recover her strength and rise to her feet. But the earth was shaking so terribly that she could not get up. She struggled desperately, until suddenly a shadow fell across her, and the earth ceased to move.

She looked up, and her mouth opened in wordless scream. For above her towered the Dragon himself!

His pale, glowing eyes stared at her from their sockets in his narrow head, which swayed slowly back and forth at the end of a long, sinuous neck. His hide gleamed all over from the sunlight reflected off his Mithril scales, so that the Queen could barely have endured to look at him even were his form not so terrible.

The Dragon sniffed the air. Then, to her amazement it spoke to her in a deep, harsh voice that caused the very earth to tremble, its foul breath nearly causing her to be sick.

"Do you know who I am, mortal?" asked the Dragon.

"I…have not had the pleasure of an introduction…" squeaked the Queen.

"I am Carakel the Silver! Am I not magnificent?" he asked, raising his wings and displaying proudly his armoured hide.

"Very.." gasped the Queen, desperately praying that she would not be sick in front of him.

"Into your garb are affixed many rare jewels, maiden," observed Carakel. "What is your name?"

"I…I am…" she stammered uncertainly.

"Are you of the Royal Blood?" inquired the Dragon.

"Yes!" she spat out, grasping at a straw of hope. "I am Firiel, Queen of Arnor!"

"Ah, the Queen herself!" exclaimed Carakel, rearing back his long neck as he regarded her from on high.

"Am…am I your prisoner?" she asked, unsure as to whether that was a hopeful prospect.

"Nay, my lady. You are not my prisoner," replied Carakel.

"Then…am I free to go?" asked the Queen, wondering at the sudden change in her fortune.

But her blood turned to icewater as she heard the Dragon's deep, harsh laughter. "The Royal Blood!" cried Carakel. "Know this, my lady. For six-thousand years have I lived under the Sun of this Middle Earth. I was reared by the hand of Melkor, the Lord of Darkness himself. And from that day to this, I have not tasted the flesh of a Queen."

Carakel smiled horribly. "Until now."

Queen Firiel tried to scream, but no sound would come from her frozen throat.

* * *

"Will you fight a man on foot from horseback?" cried Prince Galdor, hoping that his voice did not betray the tremor he felt in his legs. "Coward! Climb down, and fight me man to man!"

For a moment, the Witch King was silent. Then he began to wheeze, a thin, ghastly sound that Galdor realized to his horror was the closest this ancient sorcerer could come to laughter.

"Aye, boy," mocked the Witch King. "I shall climb down and fight thee on foot, as thou wishest. Thy end shall be the same."

Galdor held up his sword and drew back uncertainly, as the Witch King swiftly dismounted from his horse. It was only then that Galdor realized how tall the Witch King was – over seven feet from head to toe, and the thin spikes of his iron crown soared a further foot above his head. He drew his narrow sword, nearly four feet long, and then strode towards the Prince.

Praying to the Valar, Galdor slashed at the Witch King's blade – and was pushed flat on his back by the force of the Witch King's parry, which knocked Galdor's sword clean out of his hand, far across the square. The Prince reached for his belt, withdrawing a dagger to defend himself – though he knew such a puny weapon was no match against a sword.

"Thou fool," hissed the Witch King. "No Man can slay me!"

With a cry of rage, Galdor leapt to his feat, seeking to parry the Witch King's blade with his dagger and grab hold of the fiend by his throat. But with move faster than the eye could see, the Witch King sliced off Galdor's hand above the wrist. Then, before Galdor could even cry out in pain, the Witch King thrust his sword through Galdor's steel-plated armour, piercing his heart as the tip of the blade punched out through his back.

As Galdor grasped vainly at the blade with his left hand, the Witch King lifted him off the ground on his sword-point, hoisting him up in the air. A fountain of blood shot forth from Galdor's mouth, and then his head, glassy-eyed, fell over his breast.

The Witch King wheeled about, throwing Galdor off the end of the sword, and sending him crashing into the far wall of the square. He fell into a gutter and lay there, stone dead. The Witch King raised up his sword and unleashed a deafening, hideous screech of triumph which chilled the marrow of every living being within the walls of Fornost, and even disturbed the repose of Carakel the Silver, who was gnawing lazily on the Queen's remains. Then he turned and mounted his fearsome steed, once again making his way toward the gate of the Citadel.

* * *

Princess Vana huddled in her chambers, terrified by the din and clamour of the battle beyond the walls of the Citadel. She stared at herself in a mirror – tall, pale, brown-eyed and tawny-haired, garbed in a long dress of brilliant white cloth, unadorned with any gem. She was only twenty-four years old, and had planned to spend a long and happy life together with her love, Prince Aranarth. But now Aranarth was no where to be seen, and it appeared that her own life would end that very day. Cursing her fate, she turned her head into her pillows, weeping bitterly.

"Up, girl!" boomed a deep voice from behind her. She turned around to see the towering figure of King Arvedui, garbed in the plain brown tunic and pantaloons of a palace servant, and draped in the dark green cape and hood of a Ranger. A fringe of chain-mail could be seen from beneath the hem of his tunic skirt and sleeves. He bore an unadorned longsword from a scabbard on his belt, and carried the grey dress of a scullery maid under his arm, along with another green cape and hood.

"Here!" he said, flinging the dress and cape at her. "Take off your robes and put those on! Hurry!"

"But my liege!" she gasped.

"I won't look, for goodness' sake!" snapped the King, who turned around and strode back to the doorway, facing out into the hall. "But take off your robes and put on those clothes this minute! That's an order!"

Shocked and embarrassed, Vana never the less complied, taking off her long white dress (which was more difficult than it appeared to be, without any maids to help her) and slipping into the simple dress of coarse grey cloth and the rough Ranger's cloak that the King had thrown at her.

"By the Valar, girl, aren't you done yet!" cried the King. "You're not getting ready for a dance, you know!"

"I'm ready," she said, standing upright and staring at herself in the mirror. The dress, she noted, was shapeless, and not in the least flattering to her slim figure. No wonder the maids always looked so…

"Right!" cried the King, who had bounded back into the room. He seized her by the arm, and pulled her towards the door.

"But Your Majesty, where are we going?" cried the Princess.

"To safety!" he cried, pulled her out into the hall and marching her down the corridor. She scrambled to keep up with the rapid pace set by his long legs.

"But my liege, where can be safer than the Citadel?" asked Vana.

"Anywhere!" snapped the King, grabbing a torch from its mounting in the wall, and then urging her down a flight of stairs that led directly to the courtyard.

"But what of my husband?" she cried. "And the Queen? And Prince Galdor?"

"Your husband left this morning on a mission far beyond the city walls," replied the King swiftly. "If he is still alive, than he is the safest of any of us. I have looked for the Queen and Prince Galdor, but have not found them. I cannot afford to search any longer; mayhap they have already escaped, if they are lucky."

"But Your Majesty," she said.

"Silence, girl!" snapped the King. "Not another word out of you until I say so! Just follow my lead." Chastened, Vana nodded wordlessly.

They reached the base of the stairs, and ran out into the courtyard. Arvedui glanced swiftly to his left, and saw that the iron doors of the Inner Gate that exited from the Citadel courtyard were being battered inward, probably by Trolls. The Dragon was nowhere to be seen. The Postern Gate had been abandoned, and hung open; it appeared that the general and transmitted his orders, and the soldiers had fled the Citadel via the back door, which had not yet been discovered by the enemy.

The King strode past the Postern Gate, and into the open archway of another tower that stood amid the walls that encompassed the Citadel.

"But your Majesty," cried the Princess, "the Postern Gate…"

"What did I say?" replied the King. "Hush!"

He searched carefully along the wall with his hands, reaching high up with his long arms. At length, he found a stone that stuck out slightly from its fellows. He pressed hard on it. To Vana's amazement, a whole section of the wall gave way. The King seized Vana's arm again, and led her down another flight of stairs, which wound deep into the earth. He paused briefly to press another stone knob in the wall, which caused the secret door to close behind them, plunging them into a darkness illuminated by only by his flickering torch. Then he led her down the stairway until they reached a long, straight corridor that stretched an unfathomable distance toward the west.

"This is the only secret escape route from the Citadel," explained the King as they strode down the corridor. "It is as old as Fornost itself – nearly a thousand years old. The builders were sworn to secrecy concerning it, on pain of death. Since then, its existence has only been known to the Kings. Each King learns of it from a sealed scroll when he enters the Royal Vault for the first time."

"I've never heard of the Royal Vault," whispered the Princess, who had quite forgotten the King's injunction that she remain silent.

"Nor will you again, most likely," replied the King grimly. "In any event, this tunnel leads for five miles to the west; in the open fields far from the city, and far beyond the ring of barbarians who now encircle it."

"And then where shall we flee?" asked Vana.

"I am still pondering that," replied Arvedui. "Mithlond seems the obvious choice. But were you a man, I would say it would be better that we split up, and decrease the chances of our both being caught by the enemy. Now hush!"

They walked for several hours along the corridor, until Vana's legs felt as if they were on fire, and she began to fear that in truth it was endless. Moreover, her cape was too long for her, and she feared she might trip on its hem. But then, at last, she saw a small glimmer of light from the end of the tunnel.

"There it is!" cried Arevedui. He increased their pace, and within a few minutes they had reached the end of the corridor. The light came through a narrow crack, which marked the site of stone door that lay across the entrance.

"Take this," said the King, offering the torch to Vana. As she took hold of it, he turned and applied his full weight to the door, pushing against it with his shoulder. For some moments the door stood still, and Arvedui began to groan with the effort, sweat glistening from his brow. But then, at last, the door opened; first just a crack, then falling down with a heavy thud into the snow that dusted an empty field.

"Dowse that torch!" said the King, instructing her to thrust the end into a sandy floor that stood within the doorway. Then he pulled her up into the daylight, applied himself to the stone, and gave it another mighty heave. With great effort, he at last pushed it back into place. Vana noted that the outside was rough and unfinished, so that it looked like nothing more than an ordinary boulder sticking up from a bank of earth.

"I must be getting old!" gasped Arvedui, wiping his sodden brow. "I first tested that door decades ago, when I assumed the Kingship, and it barely cost me any sweat at all to open or close it!" He turned to Vana. "You must be tired yourself, after such a long walk. We'll rest here for a little while, but then we must be on our way."

"And where is our way again?" inquired the Princess.

"West," gestured the King. "To Mithlond. At least until I can think of a better plan."

"West," she repeated. She stared westward over the vista of flat snowy fields and spare hedgerows, punctuated by small copses of Oak and Ash. "It's a long way from here to Mithlond on foot," she observed wryly.

"We have no choice, unless we manage to sprout wings," quipped the King. "You'll certainly be proficient at walking, if nothing else, by the time we are there."

"But we have no food, no water," she frowned.

"There is food and water all around us," replied the King, waving his hand expansively.

"I learned the skills of a Ranger in my youth. Fear not."

"And what of my husband, and your family?" frowned Vana.

"I know not," said the King. "For a certainty, Aranarth was not in the city when the enemy attacked us. Either he evaded them outside the walls, or he did not. If he did, then hopefully he will be sensible enough to meet us at Mithlond; though he might just as likely head to Rivendell instead. That would be a bit less of a journey, from his starting point on the North Downs, though also a more dangerous road, given that he would have to cross the wild lands of Rhudaur."

"And what of the Queen, and Prince Galdor?" asked the Princess.

"I know not, girl!" snapped the King. "If only the Queen had waited for me, I could have led her and Galdor to safety along with us. But she has always been a stubborn, headstrong woman, and I fear she may have done something rash. If she and Galdor tried to flee through the chaos of the city as it was being sacked – as they must have, for they were not in the Citadel, and knew nothing of the secret passage – then I fear their chances are not good. Very few will have escaped through the West Gate."

Vana then fell silent, as she contemplated the grim fate that might well have befallen them. Whatever had happened to the Queen and Galdor, she still clung to the hope that, somehow, Aranarth might have survived.

"Come, girl!" said the King at length. "Already the Sun sinks low in the West." Then he looked eastward, noting grimly the heavy column of smoke that soared into the sky – it appeared the Witch King had ordered the half-timbered houses of Fornost to be burnt to the ground.

"Let us fly!" he continued. And with that, Vana jumped to her feet, and followed the King across the snows.

* * *

Aranarth snapped awake, aware of the dull pain in his head. He realized suddenly that he was nearly upside down, suspending amid a tangle of icy brambles over a shallow gully.

With a curse, Aranarth gingerly pulled himself out of the brambles, winching each time another thorn slashed his hand or face. He shielded his eyes with his hand, thankful that he had not lost one or both eyes when he was thrown headlong into the bramble patch.

Blast his steed! What could have panicked the beast so badly?

He carefully pulled himself out of the brambles, picking up the arrows that had been scattered out of his quiver over the icy floor of the gully when he had been tipped head over heals. His bow was still slung over his shoulder, and he felt thankful again that it had not broken under this fall. Then he climbed up the slopes and back onto the tableland. He stared about, baffled – for he was utterly alone! Of his Men and their horses, not a trace was to be seen. There were some broad depressions in the snow like those they had found before, but that was all.

Aranarth turned his gaze to the southwest, noting that the Sun was well past noon. Then, his blood froze. A column of smoke was rising into the sky! It could only have come from Fornost. The city was burning!

Then he remembered; he and his Men had heard the tramping of thousands of heavy feet, just before his steed had thrown him. Fornost was under attack! Already, it was far too late to warn them. But why had his Men and beasts departed, and left him alone? He remembered too the shadow that had fallen on them just before he was thrown, and felt his skin crawl as he considered what sort of thing could cast a shadow so huge.

Shaking his head, Aranarth scooped handfuls of snow into his mouth to quench his thirst, for the water in his leathern flask had long since frozen solid. Then he began to jog, in the long, steady strides of a Ranger, over the long miles of moorland and plain that separated him from Fornost and his family. On their likely fate, he tried not to dwell too deeply.

* * *

As the Sun sank beneath the western horizon, and the shadows of evening lengthened, Arvedui and Vana quickened their pace. The King seemed strangely anxious, and urged the Princess to make as little noise as possible.

Then, they heard it; a deep, awful baying, as if of a gigantic wolf. It was no more than a mile behind them, following their trail. They were being tracked by a Warg-rider!

"Damn and blast!" whispered the King. He stared at the Princess, who was visibly trembling with feat, and then looked about. He saw an Oak tree some fifty paces to the

West.

"Quick!" he said, pulling her toward the tree. She ran with him, and soon found herself at the base.

"Climb!" cried the King.

"But I can't," began Vana.

"Surely you climbed trees when you where a girl?" asked Arvedui. The Princess nodded. "Then do it now!" he said. Frowning, she threw back her hood, and then tested the lowest branch of the tree.

"Take this," said the King, thrusting a small dagger into the pocket of her dress.

"What's it for?" she asked.

"To use, if you must," answered the King grimly. "Now climb! There's no hiding from this beast, now that he's picked up our trail. We must either slay him and his rider or die."

Wordlessly, wondering if this nightmare day would never end – save in death – she climbed the branches of the tree, and soon found herself on a limb some twenty feet up.

"That a girl!" cheered the King. "I knew you could do it! You're still young and limber, after all." The Princess blushed, and giggled slightly.

Then the Warg howled again, this time much closer, and Vana fell utterly silent. Meanwhile, the King had unsheathed his longsword, and stood with his back to the tree, the point of his blade facing outward. It was growing dark fast, now, and the first stars of evening were peering through the heavens above.

Suddenly, there was a trampling of heavy paws, and then the beast leapt over the nearest hedgerow! Indeed it was a Warg; like a shaggy grey wolf, but as big as a horse, it's cruel eyes gleaming with uncanny intelligence. Mounted on its back was a hideous Orc, armoured in crude plates of iron, and bearing a long spear.

"What's this, my pretties?" hissed the Orc, licking its lips with its black tongue as its yellow eyes gleamed with delight. The Warg turned and stared at Arvedui, growling and salvering.

"An Arnor-man," said the Orc. "And his wench cowering up the tree, half frightened to death by the smell of her." He sniffed deeply. "Fear makes the meat so much sweeter, don't you know?"

"Enough talk!" cried Arvedui, holding his sword up in a defensive posture. "Rush in and die, filth!"

Hissing incoherently, the Orc spurred his Warg-mount forward. He aimed at Arvedui with his spear, while the Warg leapt at him, aiming straight for this exposed throat.

At the last second, Arvedui dropped to the ground, thrusting upwards with his sword at the leaping Warg. The beast screamed in agony as his sword disemboweled it, throwing its Orc-rider to the ground before it collapsed in death.

Arvedui leapt to his feet, as did the Orc – who still clasped his long spear. "That was a pretty trick," snarled the Orc. "No one's escaped Grungir's attack before. He must have been getting old and soft."

"You are fond of talking, aren't you?" asked Arvedui, before he rushed at his foe. Sreeching with bloodlust, the Orc thrust his spear at him. Arvedui tried to slice it in half, but the Orc was onto this move, and whipped it above his head, only to smash the blade down if it were a pike. The King lunged back – barely in time – and parried another thrust of the spear's iron blade.

"Garn, you're a good 'un!" sneered the Orc. "I've not had a bit of sport like this in awhile. Most of you damn Tarks die too easily. You'll be one for a tale around the campf…"

The Orc never finished his sentence, for he suddenly found the gleaming point of a green-feathered arrow sticking out of his throat. He gurgled incoherently, grasping vainly at the arrow before falling to the ground, as dead as his Warg.

Arvedui turned warily toward the snow-covered hedgerow from which the arrow had been fired, still bearing his sword upraised. A Man stood up from behind the hedge, dressed in the green hood and cloak of a Ranger of Arnor.

"Who are you?" asked the King. "Name yourself!"

The Ranger stood still for a moment. Then he dropped his bow, threw back his hood, leapt over the hedge and ran toward Arvedui.

"Father!" cried Aranarth, grasping the King by his arms.

"My son!" gasped Arvedui, dropping his sword and grabbing the Prince by his shoulders. "Bless you, you're alive and well!"

"My love!" cried a feminine voice from the boughs of the Oak tree.

"What?" gasped Aranarth, turning around. "Vana, you're alive! Thank the Valar! But what on earth are you doing up there?"

"Ask your father," she sniffed.

"Ask him," replied Arvedui, nodding at the Orc.

Aranarth laughed, and embraced his father. "Come along, Men!" he shouted toward the hedgerow. To Arvedui's surprise, some two-dozen Rangers leapt over the hedge and into the field.

"You mean you had all those fellows over there, and you let me tackle those beasts by myself?" chided the King. "What on earth's the matter with you?"

"Come, father, we only just arrived in the nick of time," replied the Prince. "We were tracking the Warg-rider, and he was tracking you, as it seems. I found these Men in the fields west of the city – they actually managed to escape from the West Gate. I've heard from them all about what happened." He shook his head grimly. "This is the darkest day in the history of Arnor."

"The history of Arnor is very nearly at a close," sighed Arvedui bitterly. "I shall have been its last King, for how can a Man be a King when he has no Kingdom? What your fate shall be, my son, I know not. But now is not the time for weighty councils."

"Where are Galdor and mother?" asked Aranarth.

"I know not," sighed the King. "If you have not encountered them in the fields west of the city, then I fear the worst."

Aranarth nodded silently, aware that now was not the time for tears or regrets. Vana had by this time climbed down from the tree, and she ran to her husband and embraced him closely.

"My love," she whispered. "I feared you were dead."

"Hush," he replied, kissing her. "I feared the same of you. But fate has preserved us, it seems."

Suddenly, another howl issued to the east, though far distant, and was joined by several others in a grim chorus.

"Quickly," said the King, as Aranarth released his bride. "We are being tracked. I was going to lead the Princess to Mithlond, but now our plans will change. You will take the princess and eight of these Men, and make for the Elven Havens yourself. I will take the other sixteen, and make for the Icebay of Forochel."

"Forochel?" frowned Aranarth. "That is many leagues from here, father, and no one lives up there at all, apart from the simple ice-men, the Lossoth."

"All the more reason to go there," replied the King. "Forodwaith is far distant from Mithlond. The pursuit will not know where to turn when it sees our trials part into to paths to far-distant destinations. Most of them will follow the larger trail, led by me and the Rangers I take with me. Fewer will follow you and the Princess, and your Men. With luck, that will increase the odds of your making it to Mithlond."

"But what of your odds?" objected the Prince. "You'll be pursued by many Wargs, and if you evade them you'll arrive in a barren wasteland."

"I am not slowed down by a woman who is inexperienced at war – meaning no offense to you, young lady," replied the King. "As for the wasteland; should you reach Mithlond, then ask Lord Cirdan to dispatch one of his Elven ships to Cape Forochel, so that it arrives there by the first of May. If I am still alive, I will be there waiting for it. If I am not there – then the ship will return with that news, and the rule of our people, or what is left to them, will pass to you."

He stared silently at Aranarth for some moments. Then he said, "Goodbye, my son. With luck we shall meet again."

"Goodbye, father" replied Aranarth, embracing Arvedui again.

"And goodbye to you, my daughter," said the King to Vana. "Fare you well, both of you!"

"Goodbye, Your Majesty," replied the Princess. "And good luck!"

"We shall all need plenty of that," nodded the King grimly. Then he picked up his sword, took command of sixteen of the Rangers, and led them at a rapid clip towards the North. Aranarth picked up his bow, took charge of the remaining eight Rangers, and fled with his Princess towards the West.

* * *

Darkness had fallen over the land, yet the embers of Fornost still burned brightly, casting an eerie red glow upon the stones of the walls and the Citadel. In the courtyard of the Citadel, inside the broken gate, sat the Witch King, mounted on his daemon-steed. The vast, shining bulk of Carakel the Silver filled up much of the rest of the yard. Several Orc-minions scurried about, while the generals of the Orcs and Hill-men kneeled before the Witch King, staring uneasily between their dreaded lord and his equally dreaded ally, the Dragon of Angmar.

"The Citadel is intact – for the most part," said the Witch King, staring up at the Dragon. "I am glad to see thou didst not destroy it, Carakel. I had feared that thou might – in which case I should have been most displeased."

"Is that so?" rumbled Carakel, picking his massive fangs with a sharp claw. "Well, your _request_ that I preserve the Citadel had already been communicated to me by your lackeys. And that is just as well for _you_ – otherwise you'd have to return to that dreadful hovel of yours up at Carn Dum." The Dragon then made a studious show of ignoring the Witch King, and returned to cleaning his teeth.

The Witch King stared silently at Carakel for some moments, and his generals crouched nervously on the ground, hoping fervently that they would be nowhere near should their dark master and his immense ally come to blows. But then the Witch King turned back to his generals, almost with a shrug, and spoke to them.

"We know," droned the Witch King, "that Prince Galdor lies dead – by my own hand, of course. And Queen Firiel also lies dead."

"She doesn't exactly lie anywhere at the moment," rumbled Carakel.

The Witch King ignored the beast, and continued his address. "Therefore," he hissed, "the question is; what of the other members of the Royal Family? Where are King Arvedui, Prince Aranarth, and Princess Vana?"

"We are tracking them, my liege," said one of the Orc-generals.

"Thou art tracking them, which is to say thou hast not yet found them?" enquired the Witch King.

"No, my liege," replied the Orc, wringing its hands nervously. "A trail was found leading north, and another to the west. We…."

The Orc's sentence was unceremoniously interrupted by the Witch King, who, with a lightning-fast move, unsheathed his sword and severed the Orc-general's head. As the Orc's body fell to the ground, and lay amid a growing pool of black ichor, the Witch King turned his attention to the now thoroughly-cowed contingent of his remaining generals.

"Know this," said the Witch King, in his most sepulchral tones. "The Royal Family must be found and _they must die_. _All _of them. The Heirs of Isildur _must_ be exterminated."

He wheezed, and then continued. "The Princess is the least important, unless she is with child; for she herself is not of Isildur's bloodline. But, since mayhap she is with child, make certain to kill her as well. I want all of their heads brought before me, mounted on pikes."

"Yes, my liege!" assured the generals, bowing and scraping.

"Then begone," intoned the Witch King. "And remember; I will either have their heads, or thine."

With further obeisances, the generals rushed from the courtyard and through the gate to the ruins of the city, eager to escape for a time from the presence of their dreaded lord and master.

"If you think I'm going to clean up that mess for you," rumbled Carakel, gesturing at the fallen Orc's body with the wave of a claw, "you're sadly mistaken. I eat only fresh meat that I've slain myself. And besides, Orcs have a rather bitter aftertaste."

The Witch King turned to face the Dragon again, his mailed fist tightening on the grip of his sword. Then, cleaning the blade on his blood-spattered sable cape, he sheathed it and rode up the steps to the main doors of the Citadel itself, the new capital of his dominion in the North.


	4. The Icebay of Forochel

**The Icebay of Forochel**

"A cold day, my liege," observed Hunthor the Ranger, his breath issuing forth from his bearded face in a cloud of frozen vapour.

"Aren't they all?" replied Arvedui, drawing a heavy fur cape closer about himself as he stared over the cliff slopes choppy blue waters of the Icebay of Forochel. It was the first of May, and yet the bay was still full of drifting icebergs, their sheer sides posing a dreadful hazard to shipping as they drifted from the frozen wastes of the ultimate North to a watery grave in the balmier regions of the South.

Arvedui and his party of Rangers had been pursued for leagues by the Witch King's minions. Yet, in spite of all the odds, they had evaded their pursuers, journeying far beyond the bounds of Arnor. At length, by early April, they arrived at the barren shores of the Icebay, whose rocky shores left no trace of the trail, and frustrated any further pursuit by the Warg-riders. Arvedui then followed the shoreline westward until they arrived at the headland of Cape Forochel. There, they awaited the arrival of a ship from Mithlond, in the hope that Aranarth had arrived at that Elvish haven and brought word that the King of Arnor was in need of rescue.

At first, life on the coasts of the Icebay had been difficult. The Rangers were experienced at surviving in the wilds, but only in forested and moorland climes that were milder than that of the Icebay. Here, there were no trees for firewood, and but a handful of elk, reindeer and coneys for game. There was a wealth of seabirds and of fish in the frigid waters of the bay, but the Arnor-men had no hooks or nets with which to catch them. Lacking their own supplies, Arvedui and his men soon became famished, and their bodies and faces gaunt and haggard.

Then one day, a party of Rangers had made contact with a tribe of the Lossoth, those mysterious inhabitants of the Far North whose travels often brought them to the Icebay. The shy Lossoth spoke but a few words of the Common Tongue, and seemed at first little inclined to succor the Arnor-men. But at length, partly out of pity for their emaciated, wretched appearance, and partly out of fear of their steel weapons, the Lossoth agreed to help them. Hoargren, the Lossoth chieftain, ordered his people to help them build simple domed huts from blocks of stone, taught them how to scour the land for driftwood, and how to harpoon fish from the shores of the Icebay, and also supplied them heavy furs to ward off the chill air.

Thus, the King and his Rangers now lived comfortably if sparely. But every day Arvedui spent a good portion of his time on the barren headlands of the Cape, eagerly scanning the western horizon to see if there were any sign of a ship from the Elvish havens. Today, like all such days, had thus far passed in boredom and disappointment.

"The Sun begins to sink into the West, Your Majesty," said the Ranger, adjusting his heavy fur cloak around his shoulders. "We should return to the camp. The air out here on the headland is frigid at night."

"Aye, no doubt you speak truly," sighed the King, as he stared at the Sea. The clouds and waters in the West were indeed stained now by a ruddy glow, while the icebergs glittered like fiery gems. "I had hoped that our Elvish friends would arrive this day, but appears my hope was in vain."

"Mayhap they will come tomorrow," offered Hunthor.

"Aye, mayhap," replied the King. Silently, he wondered if the Ranger shared his own fear – that the Elvish ship would not arrive at all, because Aranarth and his party had not survived their flight to Mithlond. While it was still possible for the King and his men to attempt the long, dangerous overland journey to the Havens, through lands that were surely patrolled by the Witch King's forces, Arvedui did not want to admit to himself that such a journey was necessary; that would be to admit that both his sons might be dead, and himself the last living heir of Isildur.

"Come, let's turn in," said Arvedui, turning on the path over the rocks and lichens back toward the distant cluster of stone huts that formed the camp. A thin trail of smoke issued from one of the huts, indicating that the evening meal was already being prepared. The Ranger followed the King, and for some time they picked their way over the slippery, icy stones. Hunthor had to help Arvedui to his feet after several occasions on which the King had stumbled and fallen, much to his displeasure.

As they arrived at at the huts, they noticed that several bridled reindeer were grazing on some tufts of hardy grass that poked up through the lingering snow. Nearby sat a curiously carved sledge, formed of whalebone and walrus-ivory, whose broad runners could cross the frozen wastes of the snowlands with ease and incredible swiftness.

"Chief Haorgren pays us a visit, it seems," smiled the King, as he steeped through the narrow arch of a hut, and into the one smoke-filled room within. There he saw several other Rangers surrounding the smouldering fire, and at the far end of the room the fur-clad Chief, his wind-chapped face obscured by his long white hair and bushy beard.

"King," said Haorgren simply, nodding briefly toward Arvedui as he sat down.

"Chief," replied Arvedui, helping himself to a skewed fish that had been roasted over the fire.

"Fire is for meat," frowned Haorgren. "Fish should be eaten raw, O King. Much better that way."

"I'll take your word for it," replied Arvedui diplomatically. "And how goes it with you and your people?"

"My people live in fear," replied Haorgren. "They fear what the Witch King will do, should he find that we shelter the Arnor-King."

"I can understand that," acknowledged Arvedui. "Believe me, we are keen to leave here as soon as we can. I am searching the waters every day, for the Elven ship that will transport us from your lands."

"The Shining Ones do not sail in these waters," spat Haorgren, his brown eyes glinting shrewdly. "Mayhap you should look elsewhere for help."

"They will come," insisted the King. Then he turned to his meal for a time, while the elderly chief sat staring into the fire. Arvedui had just finished the last of the fish when a young Ranger, his eyes blazing with excitement, rushed through the door of the hut.

"Your Majesty!" he cried. "You must come with me at once!" he continued, forgetting his manners. "All of you. Look!"

A tide of hope surging through his weary veins, Arvedui rushed out the door of the hut into the frigid night air, followed by the several Rangers in the hut, and last of all by Chief Haorgren, who scowled suspiciously. They joined a party of the remaining Rangers, who had assembled in the snows above the stony beach.

The night sky was dark and calm, affording a spectacular view of the stars under a new moon. Yet against the foaming waters of the shore, illuminated by the starlight, lay an Elven ship! Its brilliant white sail and pale grey beams shone as if with an inner radiance, and several lithe figures could be seen moving along its deck, which was perhaps some eighty feet in length.

As Arvedui and the Rangers cheered with joy, a gangplank was thrown down from the ship, and a tall, grey-robed figure strode rapidly along the shore towards the huts, his long blond hair flowing in the breeze. As he approached the Men, Chief Haorgren began muttering frantically, finally falling to his knees and fervently reciting his prayers to his ancestors.

"_Mae govannen_," smiled the Elf, bowing gracefully before the Men. "I am Linwe Ningloron, servant of Lord Cirdan of Mithlond. I am fortunate enough to stand in the presence of King Arvedui of Arnor?"

"You are indeed," replied the King, his gaunt, bearded face breaking into an ecstatic smile. "Hail and well-met yourself! Eru has surely favoured us, for you have received our message!"

"Indeed," replied Linwe, his blue eyes shining keenly, "your son Aranarth, and his wife the Princess Vana, and all their Men are safe with us. They are in Lord Cirdan's palace as we speak, eagerly awaiting your arrival there."

"Thank Eru and the Valar! Then let us not brook a moment's delay," cried Arvedui. He turned to Chief Haorgren, gently touching the aging man on his fur clad shoulder. Haorgren jumped, and then stared between Linwe and Arvedui in bafflement.

"You live!" gasped Haorgren. "Truly you are friends with the Shining Ones, as you claimed! I had thought your stories but an empty boast, for our legends say that the Shining Ones are enemies of Men, and slay them on sight."

"I trust that is not true," sighed Linwe. "If any of my people have slain yours unjustly, then I sincerely repent for their misdeeds. But it is not our way to take the lives of others, unless our own lives are first threatened. Either such harm as our people may have done to your ancestors was in self-defence, or else you have succumbed to the lies of the Enemy, who has ever sought to drive a wedge between Elves and Men."

Haorgren stared at the Elf, speechlessly, before rising to his feet and turning his gaze squarely to Arvedui.

"King," said Haorgren, "mean you to leave this night, in the monster-ship of this creature?" He gestured toward the Elf, without looking at him. Arvedui frowned at Haorgren's rudeness, though Linwe did not appear to be offended.

"I certainly do,' replied the King, a bit stiffly. "You have made it plain that you want our people gone from this land, and we shall be gone within a quarter of an hour. I thank you for your hospitality, and will repay you in kind when I can."

Haorgren turned his face toward the Sea, sniffing the air for some moments. Then he turned back to the King, a look of concern growing on his wrinkled face.

"King," he insisted, "do not go into the monster-ship! Not for the present. The wind is not right, and I deem the omens are poor. Doom shall find you, if you leave us this night."

"Come now," laughed Linwe, though his Elven-eyes now bore a glint of steel. "This is enough! For two and a half-thousand years have I sailed the waters of this Middle Earth. Not once have I lost a ship – ever. The wind has changed its course in the past hour, 'tis true, but that is not to be wondered at in this northern land, whose climate is ever changeable. Even should a storm pick up, which I doubt, my crew and our ship are well-equipped to handle it."

"I suppose," frowned Arvedui. He did not wish to offend Linwe, yet something about the vehemence of Haorgren's warning sent a chill up his spine.

"There is nothing to suppose, Your Majesty," replied Linwe. "With all due respect to this charming friend of yours, he is but a simple creature, descended from hundreds of generations of those as superstitious as himself. Shall a Man of Numenor, who bears the blood of Elven Kings in his veins, be thrown off course by an unlettered nomad? You cannot allow your plans to be disrupted by his wild claims. And in any case, Lord Cirdan gave me strict orders to bring you on board my ship and return you to Mithlond as soon as I set eyes on you. He urgently wishes to take counsel with you and your son."

Arvedui nodded, and turned back to Haorgren. "I'm sorry, old fellow," he said. "But Linwe's arguments are really quite unanswerable – and I'm sure he means you no offense. My Men and I shall board the Elven-ship without delay."

"I have spoken," spat Haorgren sullenly. "On your own head be it, if you disregard my warning. Fare you well, King – you and your Men." And with that, ignoring the Elf, he turned and walked towards his sled, hitching it to his reindeer and driving them across the snows towards the East.

"A curious creature," frowned Linwe. "But come, Your Majesty. Let us depart!"

Arvedui smiled, and then gave orders to his Rangers to break camp and board the ship forthwith.

* * *

As the Elven ship weighed anchor, and set sail from the Icebay of Forochel, its departure was observed by a solitary Raven. It was unusual to find Ravens in this land, particularly before the summer. But, this Raven had been following the course of the ship, flying from point to point along the shore of Lindon, ever since it had departed from Mithlond over a week before. It had lost sight of the ship for a time in the bay that lay before the Isle of Himling, but had followed its likely course, once again finding its quarry near the headland of Cape Forochel.

The Raven cawed briefly, a harsh, gloating sound, almost as if of triumph. Then it took to wing, soaring with all speed into the East.

* * *

The rough weather began on the third day after leaving Cape Forochel. The East wind had been rising steadily during the past two days, but now it had grown into a proper tempest, and the ship was scoured by winds from all sides. Dark clouds shadowed the sky, and the waves of the Sea soon turned into towering peaks and deep valleys of frigid water. The Elven ship endlessly climbed one peak, only to rest briefly on the summit before plunging into another valley, beginning the dreary cycle anew.

"So much for disregarding old Haorgren's advice," frowned Arvedui, sipping a herbal tea as he sat in Linwe's small cabin. His Rangers were huddled in the ship's hold, sick to a man, while the Elvish crew worked frantically at the tiller and at the rigging, struggling to keep the ship upright and on course.

"Well, I did acknowledge that a storm was possible, even if unlikely," replied Linwe, somewhat defensively. "But when you've been a mariner for as long as I have, you grow used to this sort of thing. A few more days, Your Majesty, and you'll grow your own sea legs. We'll make a sailor of you yet!" He grinned, showing a set of brilliant white teeth.

"I hope you're right," sighed Arvedui. "The Sea Kings, my people are called, but in truth the name applies in these latter days only to our southern kin of Gondor. It is long since any Arnor-man took to the waters." He cursed quietly as the ship descended into another valley, causing him to spill a good part of his hot tea on his lap.

"Well, at least you've held up better than your Men," replied Linwe. "But if you'd like some advice, it would be sensible of you to go out on deck once in awhile. I know the view is not to your liking, but the fresh air will do you good."

"Perhaps you're right," replied Arvedui, rising to his feet, pulling on his hood, and carefully walking to the cabin's door, holding onto a railing as he did so. "But I shan't be long. I only pray the time before our arrival in Mithlond is as short!"

The King then stepped through the cabin door, shutting it quickly so as to avoid allowing any sea-spray inside, and then carefully worked his way over the slippery deck, up the ladder to the rear-deck. He grabbed hold of a rail, and stood next to the solitary Elf who held the rudder.

"Your Majesty," nodded the Elf, his tawny hair blowing wildly in the wind. "Stormy enough for you?" he added, with a mischievous grin.

"You Elves all seem to have a terribly high opinion of your own wit," frowned the King, ignoring the Elf's light-hearted laughter in reply. He tried his best to look up, towards the horizon – though that was constantly shifting. As a heavy spray of foam surged over the deck, the cold water shocking him to sudden alertness, he began to stare in wonder at the clouds. They had been dark all day, but now were growing almost preternaturally black. It was as if nighttime had arrived, though it was but an hour past noon.

"Say there," shouted the King, as the ship crashed into another deep valley. "Don't you think those clouds look rather dangerous?"

The Elf stared upwards for a few moments, his smile fading into a slight frown.

"Captain Linwe!" cried the Elf, in a clear, high voice. "On deck, if you please." Linwe, now wrapped in a waterproof jerkin, appeared by the rudder but a minute later. The Elven sailor gestured toward the sky, and Linwe frowned as the ship found itself plunged into near darkness. The clouds were almost ebon, and yet glowed curiously, as if with the faintest trace of sickly green light – a light that illuminated nothing.

"Can't we weigh anchor?" asked the King. "I don't see how it can be safe, sailing this ship when we can't see anything."

"That's what we do even on the blackest nights, as long as we're far from shore," replied Linwe, who in the meantime had ignited the ship's brass stern lantern. Its warm glow was a welcome contrast to the darkness roundabout. "Besides," he continued, "we cannot weigh anchor in such rough water. The ship would be swamped. Although…" He remained silent for some minutes, biting his lower lip as if in concern.

"Aranel," said Linwe, turning to the Elf at the rudder. "How long since our position was last taken?"

"Half an hour ago, captain," replied Aranel.

"How far are we from the Isle of Himling?" asked Linwe.

"Many leagues," replied Aranel. "Ten at the least."

"Ten in fact, or ten if we have held to our plotted course between the Island and the mainland?" asked Linwe.

"Well, we can only estimate our position in such fierce, shifting winds," replied Aranel with a frown. "The predominant winds seem to be from the East; so, it is possible there has been some drift to the West."

"So we could be only five leagues distant," replied Linwe grimly. "Or three. Or one."

"Or none!" screamed Arvedui, his face pale with fear as he thrust forward a trembling arm. Linwe and Aranel looked up, their fair faces gasping with shock as they saw it; the sheer rock cliff-wall of Himling, some two-hundred feet high, suddenly revealed amid the preternatural darkness!

"On deck!" cried Linwe. "Prepare to abandon ship…"

His words were drowned out by the crash of timbers and the snapping of the masts, as an enormous wave picked up the ship, hurling it with fury against the granite walls of the cliff. As the ship was dashed to pieces on the rocks, the Rangers in the hold perished instantly, while Arvedui and the Elves were thrown into the Sea.

For some moments, Arvedui struggled in the frigid water, gasping with pain and shock as the cold penetrated through flesh and bone to his very core. Then, another gigantic wave picked him up and threw him against the cliff-face, and he knew no more. Thus did Arvedui, henceforth known as Last-King, lose his life on the shores of Himling, and thus did Linwe of Mithlond fail in his boast to have never lost a ship in two and a half-thousand years.


	5. The March of Earnur

**The March of Earnur**

In the highest chamber of the highest tower of Emyn Beraid, the solitary window carved into its smooth marble walls facing towards the Gulf of Lune, Aranarth stared into the smoky depths of a Palantir.

The Palantiri had been brought to Middle Earth from Numenor thousands of years before, by the High King Elendil himself. Seven of them had been placed within the strongholds of Numenor-in-Exile – one each at Minas Ithil, Osgiliath, Minas Anor, Angrenost, Amon Sul, Annuminas, and finally at Emyn Beraid near the shores of Lune, where Aranarth stood now. The existence of these stones was a matter of the highest secrecy, and only the Kings and their most trusted servants were permitted to use them. The stones of ruined Annuminas and Amon Sul had long since been transferred to Fornost, but Aranarth did not know what had happened to them since that sack of that place by the Witch King. He had tried to see them through them from the Beraid stone, but he saw nothing other than darkness, through which a dim ripple or wave seemed to move on occasion. He was at least certain that the Witch King had not seized either of the stones, for that fell sorcerer could not have hidden himself had Aranarth peered into the Beraid stone while the Witch King employed the others.

Aranarth knew that, staring into the depths of a Palantir, one could speak to the users of other such Seeing Stones, so that a Man of Arnor could speak with a Man of Gondor instantly, though they be separated by more than five-hundred leagues. An adept could also use them to gaze at far off places, and to far off times – even to Avallone and Valinor themselves, from the Beraid stone. But Aranarth was not such an adept, and his intention in using this Palantir was decidedly more practical in nature. This was the seventh time in as many days he had tried to use the stone to contact his distant kinsman, King Earnil II of Gondor. Each time he had failed, for he had no idea at what times Earnil looked into the Palantiri of his private chambers at Minas Anor or Osgiliath – if indeed he looked into them frequently at all. Aranarth could only continue to make attempts with the stone, hoping that sooner or later he would establish a connection that would spare him the many weeks or months it might otherwise take to dispatch a messenger and to receive a reply.

As Aranarth peered into the depths of the stone, its shifting smokes suddenly faded, and a light grew within. To his wonder, Aranarth saw that he was staring into an elaborately carved, gem-inlaid chamber of marble, within which stood an aging Man, his care-lined face framed by a neatly trimmed beard and hair of grey, his blue eyes staring intently into his own stone. The Man raised his eyebrows in surprise, as he recognized Aranarth's presence.

"Greetings, my brother," said Aranarth, in the customary greeting between the Heirs of Isildur and Anarion. He did not speak aloud, for it was a curious property of the Palantiri that the user could speak directly into the mind of another, without opening his lips at all.

"Brother?" replied Earnil, equally soundlessly. "Where is King Arvedui?"

"Arvedui has fallen," replied Aranarth grimly. "He was lost at sea, and the wreckage of his ship washed up on the shores of Lindon. My mother and brother are also dead, beyond any doubt, for they did not escape the fall of Fornost to the Witch King. I am the last of Isildur's line."

"Fornost has fallen?" asked Earnil, his shock apparent on his face. "When did this happen? We have received no word of it here in Gondor."

"News travels slowly in these latter days, it seems," replied Aranarth. "Fornost fell on the second of March, nearly three months ago. It is occupied by the Witch King and his minions, who now purport to rule the North."

Earnil frowned, and was silent for some moments. Then he bowed his head gravely. "Please accept my condolences," he said, "and those of my family, for the passing of King Arvedui, Queen Firiel, and Prince Galdor. And for the loss of your kingdom. Such a blow is more than any Man should have to bear, within such a short space of time."

"I appreciate your kind words, brother," replied Arnarth, choking back his feelings as he did so – now was not the time for an un-regal display of tears. "But it is not only my own family that has suffered," he continued. "My people have been almost annihilated, our land despoiled and defiled – all by that evil one, known to Men as the Witch King of Angmar."

"I understand, and share your sentiments in principle," replied Earnil, his face betraying no emotion.

"I trust," replied Aranarth, his grey eyes glinting fiercely, "that you share my sentiments in more than principle, brother. More than words are called for. The Witch King has struck a terrible blow against us; but surely he has only begun to stretch the cloak of his evil across this Middle Earth."

"I will not gainsay you, brother," replied Earnil, the trace of a frown on his grey-bearded face. "But understand that Gondor faces its own perils. We have been at war with the Corsairs of Umbar yet again for more than a decade now, and their allies the Haradrim have lately regained much of their ancient strength. The Easterlings also are beginning to stir again, and launch raids on our marches, as our records say they have not done for nearly a thousand years. We have had to abandon our outlying provinces in Rhovanion and Dorwinion, for we found ourselves overstretched in their defence. Indeed, our army and navy are hard-pressed now to defend our own frontiers. It is for this reason that necessity forced me to decline your late father's pleas for aid, much as it sat heavy with my heart to do so."

"I appreciate your difficulties, brother," replied Aranarth. "But with all due respect, our need at this time is greater than yours. And think you, what will it mean for Gondor if the Witch King is permitted to destroy Arnor with complete impunity? It might not be long before you find him besieging your own lands from the North, or else leading the Haradrim or the Corsairs or other savages against you from the South – or perhaps he will strike at Gondor from both fronts. For he is your enemy as much as ours – he has made it very clear that he seeks the destruction of the Men of the West. Surely you can see the time to strike back at him is now? He will only grow stronger if you don't."

"Are not your Elvish allies sufficient to avail you?" enquired Earnil.

Aranarth shook his head. "No, brother, they are not. They are invaluable, necessary – but not sufficient. Two-thousand Elvish warriors and two-hundred Dunedain Rangers - for that is all that is left of my fighting-men, all who escaped the rout at Fornost - cannot prevail against near one-hundred thousand Orcs, Trolls and wild Men, aided by a fearsome Dragon, and led by a deathless mage. It is an impossibility. Without Gondor's aid, the North will fall into utter ruin, forever. I implore you, brother, send us what help you can!"

King Earnil sighed deeply, and remained silent for a long time. He appeared to be deep in calculation. Then, at last, he replied, "Your counsel is solid. It is indeed a poor policy to allow an enemy to grow ever stronger, rather than strike him when one can. Our forces dealt a serious blow to the Corsairs but a few weeks ago, and their attacks on us are likely to be dampened for as much as a year, while they lick their wounds. I was planning to press our advantage against them – but, it is now possible to re-deploy some of our troops for other purposes. Indeed, I have lately read the stars, and they have suggested Gondor need not continue fixedly on its current course to prosper."

Earnil held up a cautioning finger. "Mind," he continued, "we can only spare part of our army, auxiliaries and navy to help you, so you will have to make do with them. Will fifty ships of the line bearing fifty-thousand fighting-Men suffice?"

Aranarth's jaw nearly dropped to the ground, though he quickly regained his composure. "They will indeed suffice, my brother! A hundred-thousand blessings on you and yours! With so many proud fighting-Men of Gondor as our allies, we shall sweep the Witch King and his scum into the Sea!"

"I am pleased by your gratitude," replied Earnil perfunctorily. "You should also know that I am sending my son Prince Earnur to join you. He is a giant of a man, and a bold and cunning warrior. He will serve as the general of Gondor's expeditionary force in the North, and will take counsel with you and your Elven-allies regarding the measures required for victory."

"I look forward to meeting the noble Prince," replied Aranarth graciously. "And my gratitude and thanks again. If I may trouble you with but one final question, when might we expect the arrival of your illustrious army and navy at the harbour of Mithlond?"

"Not for some months," replied Earnil. "Many of the men are tired of fighting in the South and the East, and need some time to rest before they will again be fighting trim. It is now just late May – I pledge to you that our army and navy will be deployed at Mithlond by no later than the Yuletide of this year. They will overwinter at Mithlond, and will start the campaign against the Witch King as soon as the snows melt in March of next year."

"Again, my blessings for you generosity, my brother," replied Aranarth, bowing deeply. He would have preferred the soliders to have arrived by early September for an autumn campaign, but felt that he was in no position to gainsay the King of Gondor when he was so deeply in his debt.

"Fare you well, brother," replied Earnil. "I am sure Prince Earnur will be pleased with his new mission. There is nothing he likes better than the clash and din of battle, and his name is feared from Rhun to Far Harad. This Witch King of yours had better pray that my Earnur does not catch site of him, or else he will find his accursed body hewn in pieces and scattered from the Hills of Evendim to the Halls of Khazad-Dum."

* * *

Many months later, Aranarth stood on the balcony of his apartment at Mithlond, his wife Vana by his side. They were staring across the grey towers and mansions of the city, and through the rift in the forested Blue Mountains in which sat the Gulf of Lune. It was December, and while no snow had yet fallen in the mild clime of Mithlond, the trees were bare, though the meadows were yet green. A mist was blowing in from the Western Sea, obscuring their view of the Gulf as it draped the West in a formless grey shroud.

"Will you stare out that window every day?" asked Vana, smoothing a crease in her shimmering blue dress; a gift from one of the Elven-maidens she had befriended. "There are surely better uses of your time, Your Majesty."

"Call me not that, even in jest," replied Aranarth with a frown, pulling away from her has he began to pace around their marbled chambers.

"Why not?" she asked. "It is your proper title."

"It is an empty title!" exclaimed Aranarth. "How can I be a King, without a kingdom to rule? To call myself 'King', or have others refer to me as such would be but a mockery. Isildur's Heir I may be, but I'll not claim the title of 'King' as long as Arnor lies in ruins. Nor shall any of my successors, if I have anything to say about it."

"Your Kingdom is not entirely destroyed," insisted Vana, her brown eyes narrowing with determination as she pressed home her point. "You must think of those of your subjects who yet live."

"And which subjects are those?" asked Aranarth, pulling the collar of his grey tunic as if in discomfort. "The Hobbits of the Shire? The Bree-men? Both are good folk in their own way, but neither are of my blood. They can rule their own petty lands, if they must. My people are the Dunedain of the North, and fewer than four-hundred of us remain. Those Men who escaped from Fornost, mostly Rangers, and those maidens or wives who escaped with them; a drop in the bucket. All the rest are slain. I am the Lord of the Dunedain by descent from the ancient Lords of Andunie in Numenor, and Lord or Chief is all I shall be called from now on."

"But Aranarth," began Vana. Aranarth raised up his hand in reply. "That is enough!" he said. "My mind is set on this matter. Do not raise it with me again."

She frowned, and then turned away from him, busying herself at her dressing table. After some moments, she said, "If that is your wish, my lord, I will comply with it. But I was referring to more than your title. Our people are saddened and demoralized. The Elves do what they can to comfort them, but only you can provide them with hope. Yet how can you lead them, if you spend all your days in here with me? You should be down there, with them."

"Perhaps you are right," he sighed. In truth, he felt almost ashamed to look his people in the eye, for in his view the House of Isildur merited the lion's share of the blame for the fall of Arnor. His family was entrusted with the defence of the realm and its people, and they had failed entirely in both respects. "Words alone will not suffice to succor them," said Aranarth. "They need a sign, visible proof of hope."

"What sign?" asked Vana, puzzled.

"The White Tree," he replied cryptically. Then without further ado, he said, "I am going for a walk down by the docks, my dear. I'll be back in time for the evening meal, naturally."

"Don't be late again," she scolded. "Last time I had to make excuses for you, and it was patently obvious that the Elves believed none of them. They entertained themselves with little witticisms about how you might otherwise be employed."

"You'll simply have to sharpen your own wits then, my dear," Aranarth replied with a mischievous smile, narrowly dodging the hairbrush that Vana threw at him as he beat a hasty retreat from the chamber.

* * *

As Aranarth strode past the quays of the harbour, pulling his green cloak tightly about himself to ward off the brisk wind from the waters of the Gulf, he saw with surprise that Lord Cirdan himself was standing by one of the piers. Several of his courtiers surrounded him as he pointed this way and that, giving them instructions in the Sindarin tongue. Cirdan caught sight of Aranarth, and turning from his courtiers he smiled at him.

"Ah, Lord Aranarth," said Cirdan in the Common tongue, – he had chosen to respect Aranarth's request not to refer to him by the title of King. "I have been inspecting the docks, which it is apparent are in need of much repair," he continued. "They have to be rebuilt and reinforced every thousand years or so, otherwise they sink too deeply into the mud of the harbour to be of use. But never mind; how fare things with you?"

"Well enough, my lord," replied Aranarth, bowing gracefully before the being who had provided his people with shelter when all hope had appeared lost. He knew that he owed the ancient Elf-lord of the Havens a greater debt than it would ever be possible to repay, and accordingly he always treated Cirdan with the utmost respect and reverence.

"That is all," said Cirdan, dismissing his courtiers. Then he turned his gaze back to Aranarth, his blue eyes shining keenly amid his handsome, grey-haired face. "You do not seem well, my friend. Come, what troubles you?"

"I do not mean to sound ungrateful," replied Aranarth. "But I cannot stand to remain here, day after day, while that vile sorcerer runs roughshod over my lands, and my family lie dead and unavenged. My father was my closest friend, and my brother, though a foolish lad in some respects, was still dear to me. Even my mother, with whom I was not on the best of terms, deserved not the bitter end she must have received. And now my father lies dead at the bottom of the Sea, and my mother and brother were surely slain long ago by the cruel Orcs and Hill-men, even were they taken alive as captives. All thanks to the Witch King! By the Valar, I feel a desperate need to strike a blow against that fiend! And yet my people are too few, too few," he continued, shaking his head sadly.

"I understand your feelings," replied the Elf-lord somberly. "I myself know what it is to lose one's homeland. An Age and an Age ago, I lived at the Havens of Brithombar and Eglarest, on the western shores of Beleriand. Ah, the pearly beaches of Brithombar, the starlight upon the shimmering walls of Eglarest! Their like is not in this world today. Throughout the Ages of the Stars I dwelt there, from the First Age of that era to the Fifth – thousands upon thousands of years, a passage of time beyond the reckoning of mortal Men. And yet, in the end they failed, as must all things in time that stand upon this Middle Earth. It is five-thousand, four-hundred and twenty-one years under the Sun since the inundation of Beleriand, and the drowning of those ancient Havens. It is as many years since I and my people founded this new Haven of Mithlond as a place of refuge for our kind. And yet not once in all those years have I failed to mourn the passing of my ancient home."

"I fear that I understand you less well than you understand me," frowned Aranarth. "It is beyond my comprehension how you could endure such sorrows, for so many countless lives of Men."

"Such is the burden of the Elves," replied Cirdan. "Our immortality is our lot, and it is both a blessing and a curse to us – more the latter, the more we age. Hence we envy

mortal Men more than you might think."

"No wonder so many of your people have taken ship for Valinor," observed Aranarth. "Perhaps in that fair land their burdens rest more lightly upon them."

"Perhaps," said Cirdan. "Or perhaps they merely exchange old burdens for new ones. Even in hidden Valinor, they must still dwell within the Circles of the World, bound to the wheel of space and time."

Aranarth nodded, staring out across the waters of Lune. The West wind had picked up in strength, and was tearing a rent in the veil of mist, through which the Sun could now be seen. The Sun, and –

"I don't believe it!" cried Aranarth, whooping with joy. "At last!"

Cirdan, astonished by the sudden change in Aranarth's demeanour, turned and stared across the waters of the harbour. Then he saw at once what had excited the Man's interest.

For sailing into the Havens from the Gulf of Lune, driven by the West wind, were dozens of ships of Men. And such ships! Each one, from the prow to the stern of its white-timbered hull, was fully five-hundred feet in length. Tall masts thrust up from the deck of each ship, bearing black sails embossed with the symgol of the White Tree. Countless Men could be scurrying to and fro on the decks, from blue-tunic'd sailors to silver-helmed soldiers, the Sun now glinting on their armoured forms. In the front of the fleet sailed the flagship, an even larger vessel whose broadest sail was embossed in cloth of silver with the Royal Standard of Gondor; seven stars and a crown surrounding the White Tree.

"The armada of Gondor has arrived!" cried Aranarth joyously. "At last, our people may have hope again!"

Cirdan smiled, and turned his gaze from the harbour to the city. Silvered trumpets were now blaring from the tall towers of Mithlond, and a growing crowd of Elves and Men, delighted by the sudden arrival of the expeditionary force of Gondor, were going forth from their homes and surging down the streets of the city towards the docks.

"Fifty ships of war, if I'm not mistaken," observed Aranarth. "Are the docks of Mithlond large enough to accommodate them all, Lord Cirdan?"

"Surely not," replied the Elf-lord. "Not since the glory days of Numenor have we received such an armada at Mithlond. On that occasion, many of the King's ships had to withdraw from this harbour and dock at the havens of Forlond and Harlond. Elves no longer dwell within those places, but I suspect that they will soon be encampments of many Gondor-men."

"No doubt," said Aranarth. He then smiled, and said, "It appears I shall be late for dinner after all."

"What was that?" frowned Cirdan.

"Oh, merely an observation," replied Aranarth.

They stood by the docks, as a growing crowd of cheering Elves and Men took shape behind them, and most of the ships of the fleet weighed anchor in the harbour, while the flagship sailed ever closer. A number of Elves had climbed into pilot boats, and guided the flagship to the longest pier, where it was soon met by Cirdan, Aranarth, and the Elves and Men who dwelt at Mithlond.

Silvered trumpets sounded from the deck of the flagship, as a long gangplank of smooth white wood was lowered from the side of the vessel onto the pier. A figure then appeared at the top of the gangplank, and strode rapidly down to the dock. When he reached the pier, he stood before Cirdan and Aranarth, and they gazed at him with great interest. Perhaps thirty-five years of age, he stood well over six and a half-feet tall, from his steel-shod feet to the top of his mane of thick black hair. His body, encased in silver armour embossed with elaborate designs in gold, was massive, bearing the broad-shouldered, muscular build that was common amongst many of the Gondor-men. A mighty sword, nearly four feet long, hung in a be-jeweled scabbard from his heavy golden belt. His sun-bronzed, handsome face bore several scars, testimony to much service in war. His fierce blue eyes stared down at them, taking their measure.

Then, at length, he spoke. "I am Earnur, Crown Prince of Gondor," he said, in a deep, powerful voice. "Whom might I have the honour of addressing?"

"I am Cirdan, Lord of these Havens," said the slender Elf, bowing gracefully with a flourish of his shimmering grey robes. He was tall, and yet seemed slight indeed beside the massive Gondor-man. "We are delighted you have arrived at last, Prince Earnur."

"I am only too pleased to oblige, Lord Cirdan," replied Earnur, with a crisp salute; right hand held over his left breast.

"And I am Aranarth. I have taken the title of Lord, until my kingdom is returned to me."

"That will be soon enough, my brother!" laughed Earnur, clapping Aranarth on the shoulder. Aranarth nearly staggered under the blow, though he realized that it was friendly, and that Earnur had employed but the least part of his strength.

"I've heard all about this Witch King of yours," continued Earnur with a broad smile, though his eyes blazed fiercely. "Seems he's been rather misbehaving himself. Just wait 'till I catch hold of him! I'll gave that dried-up old beggar such a thrashing that he'll soon wish he had never heard the name of Earnur of Gondor!"

"In valour lies your honour, young prince," demurred Cirdan smoothly. "But come, let us proceed to my chambers at once. We have much to discuss, if your Men are to disembark in a timely fashion."

* * *

As Cirdan had predicted, there were not enough berths at Mithlond alone to accommodate the Expeditionary Force of Gondor, and so its soldiers and their ships were now based at camps along the shores of Mithlond and Harlond, while its auxiliaries of Northmen camped at Forlond. Prince Earnur and his retinue, however, were treated as Cirdan's guests, and accommodated within the walls of Mithlond itself. They passed the Yuletide feasting with customary revelry and exploring the wonders of the Elven lands, for Earnur, in accordance with King Earnil's instructions, had made it clear that Gondor's armies would not move against the Witch King until the snows melted in late March. Cirdan had feared the Witch King, learning of the arrival of Gondor's armies, might strike first amid the snows of winter as he had at Fornost. But his Elven-scouts and Aranarth's Rangers reported no sign of the Witch King's armies in the lands west of the river Brandywine. It seemed that dark sorcerer had also chosen to bide his time.

In early January, some weeks after the Yule feast, the captains of the armies assembled in Lindon met at Cirdan's council chambers at Mithlond. Within the marble-walled room, its panels set with precious gems, the shutters of its windows closed to ward of the winter's chill, was a circular conference table that was also carved of marble and set with gemstones. Around that table sat Lord Cirdan, his lieutenant Lord Gildor Inglorion, Lord Aranarth, Prince Earnur, and General Wealtheow, the leader of Gondor's auxiliary force of light cavalry, drawn from the Northmen of Rhovanion. As they sipped mulled wine from crystal goblets, and the fires on the hearth crackled, they discussed the strategy they would employ against the Witch King when March at last arrived.

"I have studied the maps of these northern lands," said Earnur, waving his hands expansively. Though garbed in a black tunic, he still wore his magnificent gilded breastplate, even in the council chamber. "The solution is obvious," he continued. "We will attack Fornost from two fronts; the North and the South. Wealtheow's cavalry shall ride up the Vale of Lune, and cut across the Hills of Evendim, turning round and striking at Fornost from the North; our main force shall cut through the land referred to as the Shire, cross the Brandywine, and then turn and strike at Fornost from the South. The Witch King and his minions will then find themselves caught in a trap, with no hope of escape."

"The trap might be for us," observed Gildor, sweeping a lock of golden hair from his face as he stared at Earnur. Gildor, who was dressed in shimmering robes of deep blue, was of the kindred of the Noldor, and thus one of the few High Elves of the West to remain in Middle Earth. "I doubt that a frontal assault would be wise," he asserted

"Is that so?" asked Earnur, raising a sable eyebrow – his tone made it obvious that he was not used to having his ideas questioned. "By all means, then, favour us with your wisdom."

"There are three points to consider," observed Gildor, his grey eyes narrowing as he noted Earnur's manner. "First," he continued, "we are outnumbered by nearly two to one, though it is a basic principle of strategy that a fortified position cannot be taken without the attacker having an advantage of at least five to one."

"That only applies against a real army," scoffed Earnur. "I've fought with savages and Orcs before. As warriors, they are worthless, relying on numbers and fear of their gruesome aspect alone to awe their foes. Any one heavy infantryman of Gondor is worth five of theirs."

"And any Northman is worth ten," said Wealtheow gruffly, "twenty if he is mounted on a horse, as are my lads." Wealtheow, like all Northmen, was a giant of a man, almost as tall and broad-shouldered as Earnur. He was dressed in a tunic of scarlet cloth, which emphasized his florid complexion, and wore a golden chain about his thick neck. His long hair and beard were flaxen-blond, and his blue eyes shone fiercely. "We shall sweep those dunghill rats before us with ease," he boasted.

"That leads to the second point," sighed Gildor, crossing his slender arms. "We are not merely fighting against Orcs and Wild-men. In addition to the Trolls, the Witch King

also has in his service a Cold Drake of Forodwaith."

"Well – so I've heard, from gossip" frowned Wealtheow. His manner seemed less assured now. "Some Worms are greater than others. Know you the name of this beast?"

"Carakel the Silver," replied Gildor, noting that Wealtheow turned pale at the mention of that name.

"Carakel!" exclaimed the Northman. "Aye, that Worm is known to my people. He plagued us of old, so fiercely that we were forced to abandon our home by the sources of Anduin, and cross the shadowy depths of Mirkwood to found a new home amid the plains of Rhovanion. Few of our people survived the journey, but all of us remember the rumour of him."

"A Worm," scoffed Earnur. "What of it? We shall slay the beast with an arrow or a spear."

"That is easier said than done, Your Highness," replied Wealtheow. "His hide is armoured in shards of Mithril, 'tis said. None could stand against him, for our weapons proved useless. Aye, my people long for vengeance against Carakel, but I know not how we could attain it."

"We Elves have certain weapons that might be of use against the Dragon," replied Cirdan. "Though I shall not say more of them here."

"Then where will you say more of them?" asked Earnur. "You Elves always speak cryptically, as if you knew secrets not fit for Men. Frankly, I grow tired of it. Now is the time to lay our plans, not amid the heat of battle. But if you think you can slay this beast, then do so. I leave it to your own armies to grapple with him."

"I'm sure we appreciate your generosity," observed Gildor wryly. "And we shall deal with Carakel in our own way. Suffice to say that he is a factor that we must consider in planning our assault, for he can slay countless thousands with his claws and tail and poisoned breath. He is worth an entire army in his own right."

"So you say," scowled Earnur. "But as that is your concern now, perhaps you can get on to your third point."

"The third point," replied Gildor with a frown, "is the Witch King himself. We do not know the full extent of his sorcerous power, and it is dangerous to underestimate a foe. Which leads me to a question; where is Gandalf the Grey? We are surely in need of his wisdom."

"Who is Gandalf the Grey?" asked Earnur impatiently. "Is this council to consist of one riddle after another?"

"Patience, please, Prince Earnur," said Cirdan, holding up his slender hand. "We are all friends here. Let us preserve some decorum."

"As you wish, my lord Cirdan," replied Earnur, exhaling his breath through his nostrils – his father King Earnil had ordered him to treat Cirdan with deference.

"To answer your question, kinsman," said Aranarth softly, "you might know Gandalf under the name of Mithdrandir."

"Ah, yes. The Grey Pilgrim," replied Earnur, his eyes narrowing. "I have never met him, though I know he has journeyed to Gondor on one or two occasions. Curunir the White seems to think but little of him, though. Would Mithrandir really be of any use to us, if we could find him? He seems to have been of little enough use to Arnor during its long decline, and by your own testimony he did nothing to prevent its fall."

"I have never met Curunir, or Saruman as he is known in the North," rejoined Aranarth. "Though I have heard much of him from Gandalf, and not all of it is good. But suffice to say that the Grey Wizard is a powerful ally. It is largely thanks to his efforts that the remnant of Arnor, which had already fallen to pieces long before he began to walk amongst us, managed to survive as long as it did. Gandalf is the only one of us who could dare to face the Witch King in single combat. I bitterly regret that he was not present at the siege of Fornost, for if he could not have turned the tide single-handed, he might at least have stemmed it. And mayhap we would not have been caught unawares. But he rode off to the South over a month before the Witch King's attack, saying that he hoped to return with much-needed help. No one has heard from him since."

"Indeed, Mithrandir sounds like the one in need of help," scoffed Earnur. "He wasn't wise enough to foresee when the forces of Angmar would attack, was he? Else he would not have left – unless he dared not face them. But I care not for this talk of the Witch King's mummery. There is not any Man who I cannot slay in combat, single-handed. If he meets me, he shall die."

"That seems very doubtful, not least since it is doubtful he is truly alive," replied Cirdan. "And yes, that is another of our Elven-riddles, Prince Earnur, and one which I shall not explicate either. I suspect I know precisely who the Witch King of Angmar truly is – a being far more ancient and loathsome than guessed at even by the Men of Arnor, who have long fought against him. But I shall not reveal my conjecture to you without proof."

"Alive or undead," replied Earnur, his blue eyes blazing fiercely, "I swear by Eru that I shall not rest until I have cut off the Witch King's head, and mounted it on a pike. Does that satisfy you?"

An uneasy silence fell over the room. At length, Gildor said, "An oath is an oath, whether or not undertaken lightheartedly. But it is dangerous to swear by Eru, for that is the one Oath from which no Man or Elf may find release, in this world or the next."

"Hence my swearing it," smiled Earnur. "The Witch King's fate is sealed. But as to your three objections, none of them are any basis for changing the plan that I have set out."

"I can think of one item that might influence your plan," observed Aranarth. "There is a secret passage from the fields west of Fornost into the heart of the Citadel."

The others were silent for a moment, clearly taken by surprise. "It was known to no one, other than the Kings of Arnor," explained Aranarth. "But when my late father escaped from the city, he used that route, taking my wife, Princess Vana, with him. She has informed me of the location of that tunnel. He kept is secret from me and his men even after the escape, I suppose, to minimize the chance that the Witch King would learn of it should one of us be captured. But I see no point it keeping it secret now. The tunnel must surely factor into our plans."

"Indeed it must," replied Earnur, nodding vigorously. "A good-sized party of my light-infantry, and your Rangers, could use such a tunnel to penetrate the Citadel, and then open the gates in both the inner and outer walls of the city from inside."

"There is also another point to consider," exclaimed Cirdan. "The army of Lord Elrond of Rivendell. I have received word that Elrond wishes to send his army west to the village of Bree, and rendezvous there with us. We can then press north up the road to Fornost."

"That is but a minor change to my plan," replied Earnur. "It matters little whether we strike out from the Brandywine Bridge, or from Bree."

"So be it," concluded Cirdan. "Let us proceed to the details; weapons, provender, baggage carts, mustering and the like."

* * *

Some hours later, once the conference ended, Earnur and Wealtheow strode from the room, ready to give orders to their officers. Aranarth was also about to leave, but he was detained by Cirdan and Gildor, who closed the doors to the chambers before returning to their seats.

"What do you think of your kinsman, Prince Earnur?" asked Gildor, his youthful face calm and impassive.

"He is a very bold man," replied Aranarth. "I am certainly grateful to have him as an ally."

"And that is all?" asked Cirdan, staring at Gildor before returning his gaze to Aranarth.

"Well, perhaps he is a bit hasty," replied Aranarth carefully. "A hothead, if you will."

"He is a fool," observed Gildor dryly. "All brawn and no brains."

"That seems a bit harsh," replied Aranarth with a frown. "And you can't expect me to gainsay my kinsman, however distant, without more time to take his measure."

"You cannot allow the ties of blood to blind your judgment," replied Cirdan. "Whether a fool or a hothead, Earnur is a type who appears all too common amongst the Gondor-men of these days. They are flush with pride, nay with arrogance, at the glorious history of their realm, and think but little of other peoples. No matter that Gondor has passed its high-water mark, and that already it has retreated far from its old frontiers, in the North, East and South. The Gondor-men still believe themselves to be invincible, and Earnur most of all."

"The memories of Men are short," observed Gildor. "The decline of Gondor is obvious to us Elves, who have witnessed its foundation and its rise. But the Gondor-men themselves know nothing beyond the short span of time that they have seen with their own eyes, or else what they have read in musty scrolls in their archives."

"No doubt," replied Cirdan. "In any case, the arrogance of the Gondor-men makes them all, but Earnur in particular, dangerous foils in the hands of the Witch King, and the One whom the Witch King serves."

"And who is that?" asked Aranarth. The Elves frowned, and remained silent for a moment. "Gandalf often spoke of the Witch King as being in the service of a greater enemy," pressed the Dunedain, "but what enemy could be greater than the Witch King of Angmar?"

"If Gandalf did not tell you, then neither shall we," replied Gildor. "But understand that now that the Witch King has toppled your kingdom, events shall move more quickly than they have in the past. A strategy long in the planning has been unfolding against us, by stealth and maneuver and the use of pawns. The fall of Arnor marks the first open move by one of the most powerful pieces on the board. Both the Heirs of Isildur and Anarion must play a crucial role in the dark years that are to come; darker even than you have experienced, Lord Aranarth."

"And yet wisdom, it seems, has departed from the House of Anarion," sighed Cirdan. "It is strange, Aranarth; for if my memory serves me well, your forefather Isildur was what you would call a hothead himself, while Anarion was more as you are; quiet and thoughtful. Now, their characters are reversed in you and Earnur. Earnur does not strike Gildor or me as a Man to whom the deepest mysteries should be revealed. You are different, Aranarth; when the time is right, all shall be made known to you. And you must use that knowledge to guide Earnur on the path of right conduct, if you can. He might listen to a kinsman, where he would not listen to us."

"I appreciate your trust in me," replied Aranarth hesitantly. "Though all seems full of riddles, as Earnur observed."

"While you ponder our riddles," smiled Cirdan, "I have a gift for you." He rang a small silver bell that stood on the tabletop, and waited for some moments. There was a knock on the doors, and then a dark-haired Elf, dressed in the grey livery of one of Cirdan's servants, opened them and stood at the threshold.

"My lord?" he asked.

"Ah, Teiglin," replied Cirdan. "Please go up to my private chambers, and return with Lord Aranarth's gift."

"With pleasure, my liege," smiled Teiglin. He disappeared, and returned some minutes later, bearing a long, lacquered ebon box. He deposited the box on the table, next to Aranarth, bowed, and left the room, closing the doors behind him.

"Well, open it!" smiled Gildor. "Even Elven-boxes don't open themselves – most of them, at any rate."

Aranarth opened the box, and then stepped back, gasping in amazement. Inside was a spear, full seven feet long. But it was like no spear that Aranarth had ever seen! Its shaft was formed of gold, elaborately carved in the flowing patterns of the Elves. And its sharp silvery head was carved with many Elven runes, in the Tengwar style.

"This is Amarloke," said Cirdan. "The shaft and the head are of Mithril, though the shaft has been gilded. Runes of Enchantment lie upon the head. It is yours. Come, pick it up!"

Aranarth took hold of the spear. To his amazement, it felt as light as a feather in his hands. He made a few passes through the air with it, and it sang as if with a clear, sweet voice.

"I am honoured, and thankful," replied Aranarth, replacing the spear in its box and closing the lid. "But what have I done to deserve this gift? You have already been more than generous to me and my people, Lord Cirdan."

"If I am generous to your people now, it is to repent for my being too hard on them in the past," replied Cirdan. "I long bore a grudge against Isildur's House, for reasons that a loremaster of your people might guess. I have come to realize that such an attitude is unjust on my part. But as to this spear; suffice to say that the gift of foresight lies upon many of my people, and not least on me. We cannot see clearly, for the strands of the future form an ever-changing web. But sometimes, a strand is strong, and a certain fate seems more likely than not. Suffice to say that very likely you shall have need of this spear, before all is over."

"You have made yet more riddles," observed Aranarth. "I did not know you had ever begrudged my house, though I am glad that you have become a dear friend to us. But in any case, I thank you for your gift."

* * *

March the First found the armies of Gondor and the Havens assembled in the fields east of Mithlond. The snows of winter had melted along the shores of Lindon, whose climate was more mild than that of the interior. But the land had not yet stirred to life, and the sky was leaden-grey with heavy clouds.

Ten-thousand light infantry, twenty-thousand heavy infantry, and ten-thousand heavy cavalry stood under the banners of Gondor, under the leadership of Prince Earnur, whose squire bore the Royal Standard; seven stars and a crown surmounting the White Tree, on a field of sable. Earnur himself was clad in his full armour, and rode a magnificent black stallion. He seemed impatient, eager to commence his march across the lands to Bree, and then turn north and begin the assault on the lands held by the Witch King.

A further ten-thousand light cavalry, the auxiliaries of the Northmen of Rhovanion, were assembled under the leadership of General Wealtheow. They were garbed in iron scale-male and capes of green, each bearing a long spear and a short cavalry sword. Their banners was also a dark green field, on which was emblazoned a fiery scarlet Sun. Weatheow sat by the banner, mounted on a white charger, his face the calm mask of the professional soldier.

A much smaller group of Men, the Dunedain Rangers of Arnor, stood near by the light infantry of Gondor. They were garbed in beige tunics and pantaloons, and heavy green cloaks and hoods. All were armed with bows and arrows, though some also bore daggers, while others longswords. They stood under the banner of Arnor, a five-pointed white star upon a field of cloth-of-silver. Lord Aranarth was at their head, and he alone was mounted on a horse, a strong beast of dappled brown and white.

Finally, apart from the Men was assembled the army of Mithlond. In its ranks were Grey and Green Elves, and even the few High Elves who yet remained in the Havens; one-thousand five-hundred Elven warriors in all. They were clad in elaborate gilded armour, and bore both their famed Elven longbows, and wicked-looking pikes. Lord Gildor Inglorion, mounted on a pale white steed, served as their leader, and by his side were several squires bearing the banners of the various Elven-kindreds present; silver for the Grey Elves, verdigris for the Green Elves, and brilliant azure for the High Elves, each banner bearing an intricate design in cloth of gold and silver. The Sea Elves, however, were not present, for while they would engage with enemies on the waters, it was not their custom to fight on land, except in defence of their own strongholds. Cirdan remained at Mithlond with them; for like Lord Elrond of Rivendell he had fought his last battle on the plains of Gorgoroth, nearly two-thousand years before, and would not venture into combat again.

Princees Vana and Lord Cirdan stood on the field, a herald of the Sea Elves by their side. The herald blew his silver trumpet, and the captains of the armies – Earnur, Wealtheow, Aranarth and Gildor – spurred their mounts toward him,.

"My friends," said Cirdan to them simply, "the time has come. We have laid our plans, and now we must set them in motion. You will face great perils and great evils; but know that the blessings of Elves, and Men, and all Free Folk go with you. May the Valar protect you!"

The captains drew their swords in a gesture of salute, before returning to their armies to lead them into battle. Aranarth lingered briefly, staring at Vana, who was garbed in a dress of sable, and who was nearly moved to nears at the thought of the perils that would be faced by her husband.

"Fear not, my lady," smiled Aranarth. "We will meet again." Then Aranarth spurred his steed towards his Men. Trumpets sounded across the armies, and then they turned to their respective marching routes, laid out months before; Wealtheow and his cavalry to the North, up the Vale of Lune, and the Armies of Gondor, Arnor and Mithlond to the East.

* * *

For several days the Armies of Earnur, Aranarth and Gildor marched across the great East road, following its winding path over the Tower Hills and the marbled pinnacles of Emyn Beraid, over the copses and moors of the Far downs, and over the grassy slopes of the White Downs. At length, as they reached the crest of the White Downs, a broad land opened before them to the East. It was full of fields and hedgerows, and little woods, dormant but on the edge of stirring to life with the advent of spring. Here and there were tiny villages, their buildings seeming absurdly small even from such a distance. Houses though were few and far between, and indeed seemed too few to account for the many farmers who must have tilled the soil and husbanded the tame beasts of so many fields and meadows.

"We crossed the boundaries of Arnor when we passed the towers of Emyn Beraid," explained Aranarth. The Lord of the Dunedain was riding at the head of his Rangers and alongside Earnur and the vanguard of the heavy cavalry – Gildor was far behind, riding with the column of Elves who formed the rear guard of the army. "That was also the boundary of Arthedain, the westernmost of the three ancient provinces of Arnor," continued Aranarth. "But now we are entering the land known as the Shire, which is the home of the greater part of the Halflings. The rest, at least of those known to us, live in the village of Bree, many leagues east of the Shire."

"I heard mention of the Halflings at Mithlond," replied Earnur, surveying the land with an officer's eye for traps and ambushes as he followed the winding road down toward the plain below. "What are they, exactly? It's said they're like Men, but no bigger than children. We've heard no tales of them in Gondor."

"That's not surprising," replied Aranarth. "As far as I know, the Halflings have never dwelt in the South. But yes, they are like little Men, no taller than children; and they are childlike in some ways, though not in others. They call themselves Hobbits, and were unheard-of until some seven-hundred years ago. It seems they come from the East, from the upper Vales of Anduin. The growing shadow of Mirkwood drove them westward, over the passes of the Misty Mountains, and so into the lands of Arnor. They first found refuge near Bree, for although they once feared Men, and are still shy of them, the Bree-men were good and kindly to them. It is from the Bree-men that they learned the Common Tongue, forgetting their ancient speech, and it is from the Bree-men that they learned to abandon the bow and the spear in favour of the plough and the mill. They have been farmers ever since."

"What has any of that to do with this Shire of yours?" yawned Earnur. He seemed to be loosing interest, but Aranarth, keen to relieve his own boredom with the travails of the march, continued reciting his lore on the topic.

"The Shire is nearly four-hundred years old," replied Aranarth. "After several-hundred years at Bree, the Hobbits had multiplied greatly, and the Bree-land was growing too crowded for them. So a goodly number of them took up from their homes, and followed two of their gentry – March and Blanco, if I recall their names correctly – west from Bree, and then west of the Brandywine Bridge, into lands which at that time had long since been abandoned by my Dunedain kinfolk. They established settlements along the Road, from the Brandywine to the feet of the White Downs, and then petitioned the King at Fornost for recognition and a grant of land. My forefather was keen to see the wildlands of Arnor tamed, as much as they could be, and knew that there were not enough of our own people to settle the broad wastelands of Arthedain. So he granted the Hobbits the land of the Shire as their exclusive domain. By the laws of Arnor, no Man is permitted to dwell here, and the Hobbits are free to choose their own leaders, and govern their own affairs as they see fit. In return, they must acknowledge the sovereignty of the King, keep a watch on their borders, and agree to send armed soldiers to fight in defence of Arnor, should the King summon them."

"Soliders?" asked Earnur with a smile. "What use would they be in battle, if they're no bigger than children? Biting Orcs on the ankle perhaps?"

Aranarth laughed, in spite of himself. "Well, we have never tested them in war," he replied. "And perhaps that is just as well. I no longer claim the title of King, so I will not hold them to my allegiance in any case."

Earnur grunted, and said no more. They rode silently for a time, until at last they left the White Downs behind them, and passed through the village of Michel Delving. Its little shops and taverns were deserted, and the stucco was crumbling from some of the half-timbered walls. Holes and patches were scattered here and there on the thatched roves, and no smoke rose from their chimneys.

"This land appears long deserted," frowned Earnur.

"I'm not surprised that the Hobbits are nowhere to be seen," said Aranarth, "for as I said they are shy of Men, and a great army such as ours would surely fill them with fear and wonder. But you are right; it is plain this village has not been inhabited for some months."

"Perhaps something has happened to these creatures?" asked Earnur. "Are we sure the servants of the Witch King are not abroad in this land?"

"The Elven-scouts and my Rangers have scoured the lands roundabout," replied Aranarth. "They insisted there are no signs of the Witch King's minions west of the Brandywine, or south of Lake Evendim."

"Yet perhaps the shadow of war has led the Halflings to abandon the land," said Earnur.

"That could be," said Aranarth doubtfully. "But I think not. They may fear war, but more likely than not they have abandoned their villages for their holes."

"Their holes?" asked Earnur, incredulously.

"By nature, they live in holes carved into the ground," explained Aranarth. "They did not begin to build above-ground 'till they took up farming. Even now, their buildings are shops, and taverns, and toolsheds, and the like. They still prefer to build their homes under the ground, if they can."

"I suppose that is why I see few houses," replied Earnur, shaking his head. "But come, do you really mean to tell me they live in tunnels carved in the dirt, like coneys?"

"Perhaps the poorest do," shrugged Aranarth. "Though I understand that the holes of wealthier hobbits, their gentry and such, are quite comfortable."

"I appear to have steeped from the waking lands of Men into a child's tale," replied Earnur, shaking his head again. "But I'll believe what you've just told me if and when I see it for myself."

"We shall see soon enough," replied Aranarth. The two captains then remained silent for some hours, as they and their armies trampled across the rolling lands east of Michel Delving. The Sun was beginning to sink into the west when they arrived at a crossroads, marked by a signpost that bore the legends "Michel Delving," "Tuckborough," "Frogmorton," "Bywater," and "Hobbiton."

Suddenly, a shrill note from a brass horn rose up from behind a hedgerow. Earnur ordered the army to a halt, and drew his sword, accompanied by many of his cavalrymen. The Rangers, however, stood still.

"Peace," said Aranarth, touching Earnur's arm. "Wait and see."

At length, a little gate opened in a hedgerow, and from it stepped forth onto the road many curious figures, no bigger than children. As Earnur and the cavalrymen of Gondor stared in astonishment, the road to the South soon filled up with nearly four-hundred Hobbits! They had thick brown hair, and soft, simple faces, and their bare feet were covered by tufts of brown hair like that on their head. Each was garbed in a green cape, and tunic and pantaloons of brown and yellow, and each bore a tiny bow and a quiver-full of miniature arrows. In front of them stood one Hobbit who had golden hair, bore a staff and dagger, and stood a handsbreadth's taller than the others. A long white feather was affixed in his green cap. Beside him on a fat pony sat an aging Hobbit with long silvery hair, dressed in rich green and yellow robes of velvet.

"Greetings, little friends," said Aranarth, riding toward the elderly Hobbit on the pony.

"Greetings, Your Majesty," replied the elderly Hobbit, in a dry, crusty voice. "I am Bredegar, Master of the Great Smialls at Tuckborough, and head of the clan of Tooks."

"I no longer claim the title of King, Master Bredegar" replied Aranarth. "I am merely Lord of the Dunedain now."

"Really?" frowned Bredegar, as the other Hobbits muttered amongst themselves. "That seems a shame," he continued, his green eyes contemplative, "though of course I shall comply with your wishes. Even so, my lord, our people swore an oath to our forefather, and I deem that by blood it is as binding upon us as upon you."

"I appreciate your loyalty, Master Bredegar," replied Aranarth.

"Were these creatures hiding behind the hedgerows the whole time?" frowned Earnur, who rode up to Aranarth and then halted his steed, staring down at the Hobbits from his towering height. "How is it they were not spotted by the Rangers?"

"We weren't hiding," replied the young staff-bearing Hobbit, with a defiant air. "We were keeping a watch on you, to determine whether you be friend or foe. We would deem you foe, but for the fact that you ride alongside the King – or, the Lord, now, is it? – of the North. For, you have trespassed on our lands without our permission. And if you did not see us, that is no wonder, for you Big People are clumsy folk indeed. You couldn't find your own great noses, if they weren't attached to your faces."

"Know you not who I am?" replied Earnur, his face flushing scarlet. "Have a care how you speak to me, sirrah!"

"I care not who you are," replied the Hobbit stoutly. "You are neither King, Lord nor Master of the Shire, and we don't hold with outlanders or their strange ways. We will speak only with the Lord Aranarth himself."

Earnur scowled darkly, but Aranarth laid a cautioning hand on his arm. "Peace, my brother!" he said. Turning to the Hobbit with the staff, he said, "This is Prince Earnur of Gondor, and you should treat him with as much respect as you do me. What is your name, might I ask?"

"Prince of Gondor, eh?" asked the Hobbit, narrowing his brown eyes suspiciously. "I thought Gondor was just a land in a child's tale. Well my lords, I beg pardon for any offence caused. My name is Falco Took, at your service." He doffed his cap, and bowed deeply. "Eldest son and heir of Master Bredegar of Tuckborough."

"We have indeed come to offer you our service, my lord," said Bredegar, addressing Aranarth. "Though you have not asked for it. But that accursed Dragon has ravished our Northfarthing for long enough, and now we mean to strike a blow against him."

"Dragon?" asked Earnur, raising a dark eyebrow. His temper diminished at once, and his mood became inquisitive as he heard this unwelcome news. "How can there be a Dragon in these parts? Our scouts and Rangers said that none of the Witch King's forces were seen west of the Brandywine."

"Mayhap not," replied Bredegar, glancing briefly at Earnur before returning his gaze to Aranarth. "But this fell beast is quick and silent, rarely heard and less often seen. He flies high in the skies, it seems, miles and miles up. When he sees a choice flock of sheep or kine cornered in a byre, he plummets from the heavens like a stone, as if he were an Eagle. He gulps them down like a starving wolf, and then takes to the skies again. It's all over with in minutes."

"More than half our sheep and cows in the Northfarthing have been taken," scowled Falco. "And some of our shepeards have been slain. Our people fear to go outside, lest the Dragon snatch them from above, and we'll have little meat or milk this spring, nor dare we plough the land and till the crops. There will be nothing on our plates but pease porridge and stale bread until autumn; after that we will face famine, unless the Dragon is driven from our lands." The other Hobbits frowned and grumbled, shaking their heads.

"I am sorry to hear of your plight, my friends," replied Aranarth. "And I apologize to you, for it seems that my House has failed to protect you. Your plight was unknown to us."

"You never asked us how things stood in this land, my lord," replied Bredegar, thrusting his chapped hands into his pockets. "We would have been more than happy to tell you."

"Again, I apologize," sighed Aranarth. "We did not mean to slight you. But while I appreciate your offer of aid, my friends, I cannot accept it. We ride into perils greater than you can imagine. I cannot be responsible for leading hundreds of your youngfolk to their doom."

"We know the perils well enough," replied Falco, drawing himself up to his full height; a solid three foot eight. "We have sent messengers to the Bree-hobbits, and heard from them of the evil Witch King and his dreadful deeds at King's Norbury – Fornost, as you call it. But though a timid folk we may seen, our love for our land runs deep. We will not allow the Dragon or his ally, that dark sorcerer, to rob us blind and lead us to starvation. We want nothing more than to live in peace, but still our boldest folk are prepared to do their part." The other Hobbits nodded, their little faces strangely stern and keen.

Aranarth regarded them for a time, his grey eyes narrowing thoughtfully. Then he replied, "So be it, my friends. I still do not wish you to march into open battle against Orcs and Trolls and Wild-men; nor would you wish to, once you set eyes on them. And we have devised our own plan for dealing with the Dragon, in which you cannot play a part. But while your people are small, and not strong by our measure, you have keen eyes and ears and noses, and your stealth is legendary – you have proved that well enough today. If you will join with my Rangers, and serve with them as spies and scouts for our army, I would be more than happy for your aid."

Falco turned to Bredegar, who nodded solemnly. Then he bowed before Aranarth, and replied "So be it, my lord. The Hobbits of the Shire are at your service."

"Well, now we've truly nothing to fear at all," exclaimed Earnur, before turning round and rejoining his cavalry.

* * *

The army camped in the fields by Hobbiton and Bywater for the night, and the next morning it continued on its way. For two more days it followed the road through the Shire, accompanied by the Hobbits. As Aranarth had ordered they were numbered amongst the Rangers of Arnor – though they found it difficult to keep pace with Rangers' long legs. Master Bredegar returned to his Great Smialls at Tuckborough, for he was too old for service in war, but his vigorous son Falco served as the leader of the Hobbit-scouts, and took his orders from Aranarth personally.

On the evening of March the Fifth, they reached the stone expanse of the Brandywine Bridge, and camped in the fields along the turbulent brown waters of the Brandywine River. The first yellow Coltsfoot flowers had begun to poke up from the riverbanks, promising that winter's time was near its end, and spring was on its way. But the next day, after they crossed the Bridge into the empty lands east of the Shire, the weather took a turn for the worse, and a cold rain began to beat endlessly on the land, turning the fields by the sides of the paved road into seas of mud, slowing the march of the army to a crawl, and rendering Men, Hobbits and even Elves wet and miserable.

For four more days they marched across the flat expanse between the Brandywine and the Bree-land. The army hugged to the north of the road, for to its south lay the dark expanse of the Old Forest, which the Hobbits swore was an accursed haunt of witches, werewolves and goblins. The Men of Gondor laughed at such claims, though they still gave the forest a wide berth. The Rangers whispered darkly amongst themselves of the tales of the Old Forest, and how more than one ill-fated Man had braved its depths, never to return. The Elves, for their part, denied such tales were true, yet still acknowledged that a Power dwelt in the Forest with whom it would be wise not to tamper. _Iarwain Ben-Adain, _they would whisper, First and Fatherless – but they would say no more.

At length, as the afternoon of March the Ninth wore on, they left behind the expanse of the Old Forest, and rode past the dreary slopes of the Barrow Downs, which also lay to the south of the Road. The rains grew even heavier, and dense fog began to form on the summits of the Downs, sliding down towards the road like the feelers of a grasping white hand. The army now trod the fields well north of the road, braving mud and treacherous pools, rather than find themselves enmeshed in those fogs. For even the Gondor-men had heard tales of the Barrow Downs, which had long lain under an enchantment of the Witch King. The barrows on the summits were infested with Wights, evil spirits inhabiting the bodies of dead Men. Those foolish enough to set foot on the Downs, and who found themselves enmeshed in their treacherous fogs, were never seen again. Neither Elves, Men nor Hobbits cared to contemplate their fate.

As the shadows of evening lengthened into an ebon night, the East wind picked up, and the rain poured down harder than ever, the army at last saw the twinkling of many yellow lights on the horizon, and arrived in the fields that sprawled west of the ancient town of Bree. Bree was a settlement of some five-thousand souls, four-thousand of whom were Men, and the remainder Hobbits. The Bree-men, though friends of the Dunedain, were not akin to them, being shorter and darker, and of a progeny that stretched deep into the antiquity of Middle Earth. The Bree-hobbits, though not nearly as numerous as their cousins the Shire-folk, tended to adopt a superior air towards them, referring to them as "colonists", and subtly reminding them that Bree was the fount of Hobbit civilization and culture. There was thus a fierce rivalry between the Bree and Shire-hobbits, although for the most part it remained friendly rather than bitter. Falco and his lads seemed keen to tell their side of the story, but to their disappointment the Rangers showed little interest in Hobbit rivalries.

As the army encamped about the town for the night, the Rangers conversed with the constables of the watch who manned the gates of Bree. They at first offered to accommodate the soldiers within the houses of the town, though they soon demurred when it became apparent how vast was the army of Gondor. They had little to say of the Witch King, for it seemed that even though Fornost was but a hundred miles north of their Bree, none of the Witch King's servants had been seen within twenty-five miles of the Bree-land. The Rangers thought this odd, and reported the news to the captains of the army; Earnur, Aranarth, Gildor and Falco. These four were trying to hold a conference in Earnur's tent, though its canvas was sodden wet and dripping, and the fierce winds made it difficult for the Men to hear each other speak.

After receiving the Rangers' report, Aranarth turned to the other three and shouted, in a hoarse voice, "My friends, might I suggest we take our conference to a place within the walls of Bree? The Bree-men are loath to accommodate forty-two thousand and one-hundred soldiers in their homes – and who can blame them. But I am sure they will be eager to allow the captains of our army shelter within their walls. In fact, I know the perfect place; an Inn called The Prancing Pony. The Innkeeper is a sour old fellow, but his ale is stout enough."

"The Prancy what?" asked Earnur.

"PRANCING PONY!" shouted Aranarth, disappointed that no one had caught on to this pun.

"Oh? I thought you said 'pony'," replied Earnur. "Well, let's foot it there at once. I can hardly hear myself talk in this racket."

And with that they pulled their cloaks and hoods tightly about themselves and set forth through the driving rain to the Western Gate of Bree, a simple wooden door set in a steep earthen bank and surrounded by moat that was typically dry, though on this night full of water. When they crossed the causeway and announced themselves to the gatekeepers, those Bree-men began to bow and scrape eagerly, hurling open the gate and ushering them within the walls of the town. Several of them saluted Aranarth, and inquired after his health, while one of them ran down the muddy streets that knit together the stone-built houses of the town to alert the Innkeeper that he was about to receive Honoured Guests.

After disengaging themselves from the Bree-men at the Gate, the four captains marched down the streets, which were as empty as one might expect on a night of such dreadful weather. At length, they found themselves before a large, three-storied stone house, which encompassed a broad courtyard. The symbol of a pony, which hung from a sign over the main doors, made it clear that they had reached the Inn. Several solid Bree-men were exiting through the doors into the muddy street, wrapping their cloaks tightly about themselves and grumbling inaudibly as the captains walked past them and entered the building.

Aranarth closed the doors to keep out the wind and rain, and they found themselves in a broad, wood-paneled room, bearing many trestle-tables and benches, and warmed by an enormous fire that roared within a heavy stone hearth. In a dark corner of the room, a short, fat, bald-headed Man, who wore a greasy shirt and trousers and a beer-stained apron, was shouting at a diminutive, bent-over figure who sat at a bench, and held his tattered robes tightly about himself.

"Go on, clear out, you old sot!" shouted the Innkeeper. "We've great lords and kings coming here as guests tonight. They won't want no truck with the likes of a mountebank such as you."

"The great lords and kings have arrived," announced Gildor, in a high, clear voice that filled the room. The Innkeeper turned around at once, wiping his hands on his apron and trudging over to them. He stroked his dark beard before bowing deeply.

"Your Majesty! My lords!" he said, in a loud, squeaking voice. "And an Elf-lord!" he gasped, staring at Gildor in wonder. "A thousand pardons for the wretchedness of this 'ere humble establishment," he continued. "It mayn't seem much, but it's the best Bree has to offer."

The Innkeeper then smiled obsequiously, rubbing his thick hands together. "I've sent the regular lads back to their homes, so you could have the entire place to yourselves. If you'll pardon me, I just have to send this here old vagrant in the corner there packing. He's been hangin' round the place for months, spending as few coppers as he may. I would have got rid of him long ago, but that he's done some conjuring tricks for my regular customers, pulling coins out of their ears and telling them what cards they've picked out of a deck and other such things. Keeps the lads amused, which keeps the ale-taps open, and the coppers flowin' into my purse, as it were," he laughed nervously. "But I'll just toss 'im out on his ear, and then…"

"You shall do so such thing!" boomed the figure from the corner, in a deep, gravelly voice. He stood up suddenly, seemingly doubling in size, and strode across the room, his wooden staff clacking on the floor. "And I've endured enough of your abuse for one night, Mugwort Butterbur!" he continued. "If you say one more solitary word – a single word, mind! – I shall turn you into a mouse, and feed you to the cat."

"You had better do as he says, Mister Butterbur," laughed Gildor, as he saw the expression on the astonished Innkeeper's face. "No doubt he means it."

"Gandalf the Grey!" gasped Aranarth in astonishment.

"Who else?" snapped Gandalf. "Though this cloth-eared Innkeeper hasn't heard of my reputation, apparently. Off with you at once, Butterbur! Ready a private room, and fetch us some ale – only the finest, mind. And also some cheese tarts, bread, dried apples, hot stew, honey-cakes, and tea. On the double!"

"Yes, Innkeeper, snap to it," said Earnur impatiently. "I don't intend to stand here all night."

Mugwort stared back and forth between Gandalf and the captains of the army, his fat lower lip trembling as he appeared on the edge of tears. Then he bowed deeply and scurried off to the kitchens, pausing on the way to flash a suspicious glare at the black cat which slept lazily by the hearth.

* * *

"Well, my friends," said Gandalf, pushing away his empty plate and bowl, laden with crumbs and traces of stew, "it seems you've already laid your plans without any need of my counsel."

"Though we should appreciate it none the less," replied Gildor, who had toyed daintily with the food on his plate before choosing a single dried apple for his repast. He had politely, if forcefully, refused the Innkeeper's repeated offers of ale.

"I don't mean to pry, Gandalf," said Aranarth, "but I am curious as to where you have been over the past year and more. You rode off into the South two January's ago, and that was the last we saw of you. My father said you were searching for aid, though he did not say from who or what."

"Of course you mean to pry," replied Gandalf, quaffing a deep draught of ale before setting aside his pewter mug. "But you're well within your rights to do so. There's no doubt I owe you an explanation, and apologies of my own. Suffice to say that I did indeed seek for aid against the Witch King – and was gravely disappointed."

He sighed, and it seemed to Aranarth that he suddenly appeared older and smaller. "I should have known better," he continued. "And by the time I had returned to the North, the Witch King had already struck – earlier than I had expected he might, or I never would have left in the first place. A terrible price has been paid for my mistake. I am sorry, Lord Aranarth."

"You do not need to apologize, old friend" replied Aranarth softly. "There was little you could have done, had you been there."

"There is quite a lot I could have done!" exclaimed Gandalf, slamming his fist on the table. "If nothing else, I would have rescued the whole of your family from harm. Even your mother."

"What was the matter with his mother?" inquired Earnur.

"Dreadful woman!" exclaimed Gandalf. "Couldn't stand her. Although," he added hastily, "I mean that in the nicest possible way, Aranarth. In any case, she didn't deserve her fate." Aranarth frowned, but said nothing.

"The past is past," observed Gildor calmly. "The question is how you shall aid us at present, Gandalf. I had feared greatly to face the Witch King without you by our side. Now at least we shall have some hope of besting him."

"Have I not already told you that I have marked the Witch King for death?" replied Earnur angrily. "Whether you mean to slight me or no, Elf, I am not amused. The Witch King shall meet his end on my blade – that is all we need to say about him."

Gildor narrowed his eyes, and turned to face the Grey Wizard. "Bold Prince Earnur," he explained dryly, "has sworn by Eru that he shall slay the Witch King himself."

"Is that so?" asked Gandalf, his mood suddenly quiet and serious. He turned his gaze on Earnur, who suddenly realized how bright and piercing were Gandalf's eyes, as if he could stare into the very depths of a Man and read everything within.

Earnur felt his skin crawl, and then exclaimed, "What is it you seek, Wizard? If you have something to say to me, then say it."

"I've already found what I sought," replied Gandalf with a frown.

"You're worse for riddles than the Elves," grumbled Earnur. "Why don't you speak plainly?"

"Do not meddle in the affairs of Wizards, for they are subtle and quick to anger," whispered Gildor.

"This is all quite fascinating," interjected Falco, who seemed rather put out at having been ignored entirely throughout the proceedings. "But if I might ask a simple question; how exactly are we going to slay this Dragon? No one has ever explained that to me."

"The Elves shall deal with the Dragon," replied Aranarth. "Only their enchanted weapons are of use against him. And perhaps Gandalf might wish to aid them. The army of Gondor shall deal with the Orcs and Trolls and Wild-men. And of course as we discussed, my Rangers and your Hobbit-lads will act as spies and scouts, discovering the whereabouts of the enemy and setting traps for them."

"And I shall deal with the Witch King – _personally_," emphasized Earnur.

"I'll take care of the Trolls," said Gandalf. "As long as they fight by day, at least. And I'll help with the Dragon too. As for the Witch King, I had meant to confront him myself. But it is not my place to interfere with an Oath sworn by Eru – no matter how hasty and foolish it may have been. Though my heart forbears it, I fear Earnur must try his blade against the Witch King, just as he has sworn to do."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Earnur, surprised to find the Grey Wizard suddenly speaking in support of his position.

"I have a question of my own," said Aranarth. "How is it possible that Bree has remained unmolested, when it is so close to the encampment of the Witch King's armies at Fornost? We have long expected it might be overrun any day, yet I have heard from the watchmen at the gate that none of the Witch King's minions have remained within twenty-five miles of here."

"I'm sure you can guess that answer to that riddle yourself," replied Gandalf, with a twinkle in his eye. "Suffice to say that by the time I returned to the North, Fornost had already fallen. But I was determined to hold the Witch King in check, until the time had come when he could be defeated in war. I have set my power about Bree, and as long as I am here, evil things cannot enter within this little land. Only the Witch King himself could break the spell of protection I have set about the town, and he has not yet ridden south into battle. Old Carakel tried to harass the Bree-folk, but a few lighting bolts from my staff drove him off to seek easier pickings elsewhere…" The smile faded from Gandalf's face as he saw the frown on Falco's.

"Oh, dear," said Gandalf. "I take it Carakel has been giving you a hard time?"

"He has eaten more than half our sheep and kine, and some of our people as well" replied Falco. "I've no quarrel with your protecting the Bree-folk – the Hobbits here are our cousins, after all, even if somewhat estranged – but I must say that no one seems to have given any thought to us Shire-folk at all. We've been forced to fend for ourselves."

The others remained silent for a time. Then Gandalf said, "If that is true, than I am sorry for it. The business of war stands before us now; but when it is over with, and we have had the victory, I shall discuss with you and your father what at I, at least, can do to make amends."

"And so shall I," said Aranarth. "When the Witch King is driven from these lands, my Rangers and I shall do what they can to succor the folk who still dwell here. And we shall not forget the Hobbits of the Shire."

"That is much appreciated, my lords," replied Falco with a gracious bow.

"If there is nothing more to discuss," said Earnur, rising from his chair, "then let us seek our beds. We might not find ourselves sleeping under a roof again for some days."

* * *

The next morning, March the Tenth, found the Bree-land blanketed in snow, which grew heavier by the hour. The winds had died down, but the sudden cold did nothing to improve the spirits of the Men and Hobbits encamped about the town, though the Elves appeared indifferent to it. Gandalf took up his staff and put on his wide-brimmed hat, and he and the captains of the army paid their coin to Mugwort Butterbur, who was especially ingratiating toward the Grey Wizard – "Do come again, my lord!" Then they strode down the streets of Bree and out the gate, on the way to Earnur's tent.

When they arrive there, they heard the clear ringing of trumpets from some distance to the east. Not long after, a messenger appeared, informing them that the army of Rivendell had arrived. They waited for a time, and at length they saw them approaching over the snowy fields from the east; five-hundred golden-armoured warriors, marching under the azure banner of Lord Elrond. The army encamped beside the Elves of Mithlond, while its three captains rode towards Earnur's tent on pale Elven-steeds. These were Glorfindel, a High Elf akin to Gildor, and Elrohir and Elladan, twin brothers and the sons of Elrond Half-Elven, both born after the fall of Sauron nearly two-thousand years before.

"Greetings, my lords!" cried Glorfindel, his golden hair tossed to and fro by the wind. It was always difficult to discern the age of Elves by sight alone, but to the mortals present he appeared younger than Gildor. "I am Glorfindel of Rivendell. Lord Elrond sends his greetings!"

"And we are pleased to receive them," replied Gandalf with a bow.

"I am Elrohir, and this is Elladan," said one of the twins. They were nearly identical in appearance; black-haired, pale-skinned, and blue-eyed, as tall as Elves, but with a broad-shouldered build more typical amongst Men. Alone of the Elves present, their armour was silvered rather than gilded, and each wore a cape of deep blue wool. "We are the sons of Elrond," continued Elladan. "Might we have the honour of introductions?"

"You know Gildor and I, naturally," replied Gandalf. "The great-bodied Man here is Crown Prince Earnur of Gondor, and his slimmer counterpart is Lord Aranarth of the Dunedain of Arnor. And the Halfling is Falco, son of Master Bredgar of Great Smialls, of the Westfarthing in the Shire."

"Greetings, my lords," said Elladan. He stared briefly at Falco. "I have never heard of the Halflings riding into war. These are strange times indeed."

"His people march amongst my own," explained Aranarth. "The Halflings are wondrous keen at wood-craft and stealth, and fitting counterparts to my Rangers."

"Perhaps the time has come when all free folk must unite against the forces of darkness," replied Glorfindel, dismounting from his steed. Elrohir and Elladan followed him, striding into Earnur's tent as their mounts were led away by squires. "But come, my lords," continued Glorfindel, "let us take counsel together. We Elves of Rivendell hope to do our part; for though we are few in numbers, we are full in experience of fighting the minions of the Witch King."

"Well said," replied Gandalf, following them into the tent. "And not only your experience, but every good sword and longbow is needed in these grim times."


	6. The Battle of Fornost

**The Battle of Fornost**

By morning of the next day, March the Eleventh, the snowfall had abated, although the snow stood over a foot thick on the ground, greatly impeding the advance of the army. The Gondor-men shivered and cursed frequently, for the balmy clime of their southern homeland left them ill equipped to endure the rigours of a northern winter. But the soldiers decamped none the less, turning their march to the North, up the High Road to Fornost. In their vanguard strode the Rangers and Hobbits under Aranarth and Falco, who were to serve as the eyes and ears of the army as they drew closer to the lands now held by the enemy. Alongside them rode Gandalf, on a dappled grey mare borrowed from Earnur's supply train.

It was tough slogging for the Hobbits, for whom the snow was well above their knees. But by following in the wake of the long-legged Rangers they persisted, and so the vanguard marched north, past the outlying villages of Staddle, Coombe and Archet, and so to the edge of the Chetwood, that patch of tame woodland which marked the boundary of the Bree-land to the north and east. The Chetwood skirted along the eastern margins of the Road for many miles, reaching its end beyond the horizon near the southern marches of the fields and meadows about Fornost. A pall of quiet fell over the vanguard now, for they knew that they were passing beyond the region which had lain under Gandalf's sway, into the lands held by the Witch King of Angmar.

The snow sat thickly on the branches of the Oaks and Beeches of the Chetwood, though many branches appeared to have been swept clear. The Hobbits were the first to notice that on those branches sat countless Ravens, staring grimly at the marching army with unfriendly ebon eyes. "Little beasts!" exclaimed Falco, who ordered his Hobbit-archers to fire a volley at them. Some of the arrows hit their marks, but most of the Ravens flew off to the North, their harsh, mocking cries echoing across the snowy woods and fields.

"It appears the welcoming committee is off to ensure us a warm reception," observed Gandalf wryly.

"Think you that mere birds are in the service of the enemy?" asked Arnarth quizzically. Aranarth and Gandalf were riding beside each other, at the forefront of the Rangers.

"Of course they are!" frowned Gandalf. "Ravens have been servants of the dark powers since time immemorial. Though other birds may serve the powers of light; my cousin Radagast the Brown, for instance, who lives away East near the boughs of Mirkwood, is a master of bird-speech, and many sparrows, swallows and doves are his friends. But I've no doubt these Ravens will soon bring report of us to the Witch King."

"If so, then it would seem wise to scout the Road ahead of us," replied Aranarth. He ordered the vanguard to come to a halt, sending messengers to pass the word down the ranks of the Gondorian and Elven armies behind.

"Captain Gorlim," said Aranarth to one of the Rangers. "Take two-score of your Men, and advance through the Chetwood, using its trees as cover, to report on the condition of the road ahead. Return to us with your report by this evening."

"Yes, my lord," replied Gorlim, his grey eyes scrutinizing his men before selecting those most fit for the mission.

"I and a score of my Hobbit scouts shall accompany you," said Falco, who had ridden up to join them. "Notwithstanding the snow, we can sneak closer to any pickets or redoubts than you Big People, and bring a more accurate report of the numbers of the enemy within them."

"So be it," nodded Arathorn. Falco dismounted, leaving his pony to one of the Hobbits, while a score of the others accompanied him in the wake of Gorlim and the Ranger-scouts as they passed into the forest. The scouts had not been long departed when Earnur rode up on his charger.

"What's the cause for delay?" asked the Prince. "We received your instructions to halt the column. Is there trouble ahead?"

"That's what we're trying to find out," replied Arathorn. "We think we may have been spotted already. I've sent out scouts to investigate the Road ahead."

"I won't gainsay that," replied Earnur. "Though this accursed Dragon could spot us at any time, if the tales about him are true."

"He may already have done so," nodded Gandalf. "Never the less, we shall wait and see what the scouts have to say for themselves." Earnur nodded wordlessly.

The captains were joined at length by Gildor, who had been sent by the Elves to determine the cause of the delay. He asked them to send a report by messenger when the scouts returned, and then rode back to his own people, rather than bide his time alongside Earnur – who had scowled, and seemed well aware of Gildor's opinion of him.

The day passed slowly and drearily, with all the soldiers shifting back and forth on their feet and stamping their boots to ward off the chill. The Hobbits sniffed the air and proclaimed that a change was coming, and the weather would soon take a milder turn; that did not raise the spirits of Aranarth and Earnur, since it merely meant that the snowy fields would soon melt into seas of mud, further hindering the progress of the army.

Finally, as the Sun sank low in the West and the first stars appeared in the darkening sky the tireless Rangers returned, accompanied by the very weary Hobbit-scouts. Gorlim bowed before Aranarth and Earnur, and then said, "It is well we stopped, my lords. Ten miles distant is the first picket of the enemy – lightly guarded, but the first of many. We will skirmish with them if we proceed further along the Road tonight."

"We could sweep pickets aside with a wave of our hand," replied Earnur. "But I am more concerned about the main body of the enemy's forces. Were there any signs of their approach?"

"Not yet, Your Highness," replied Gorlim, "but then that is to be expected. Fornost is many leagues distant."

"We noted that all those manning the pickets were Hill-men, of Hithaeglir and Rhudaur," gasped Falco, who seemed the worse for wear after a long day of marching in the wake of the fast-moving Rangers. "There were no Orcs to be seen."

"Orcs are never much use when left to their own devices," replied Aranarth. "Doubtless the Witch King has them penned-up within the walls of Fornost, where he can keep an eye on them." He noted the exhaustion of the Hobbits with concern, though he did not remark on it.

"What now, my lords?" asked Gandalf. "I do not think we should spend the night here. The eves of the Chetwood could provide cover for our enemies as easily as it did for our scouts, should the Witch King move against us sooner than we expect."

"I agree," nodded Earnur. "We should move off the Road, to the West, and spend the night in fortified encampments. We can march up the road to deal with the pickets tomorrow."

"Might it not be best to march west and then north, bypassing the pickets entirely?" asked Aranarth.

"I like not leaving my flanks exposed," replied Earnur, shaking his head. "And the fields might be muddy on the morrow.

"Even so," replied Aranarth, "we could get even more bogged down on the Road, if the pickets are many."

"That is possible," admitted Earnur, "though we may have lost the advantage of surprise in any event. But we shall decide these matters in the morning." He rode back to his Men, issuing orders to march west into the fields and stake pickets into the snow to defend their encampments for the night. The army soon did as it was told, accompanied by the Elves, Rangers, and the weary Hobbits.

* * *

It rained over the night, and the next morning the air was mild, just as the Hobbits had predicted. The snow was melting quickly, forming bubbling rivulets, though the frozen ground had only begun to thaw.

"We may get some traction over the fields today," said Earnur, as he pushed his hands through the snow and brought up a small clod of frozen soil from beneath. "I've decided the army shall bypass the pickets, just as you had suggested, Aranarth. Our cavalry shall screen our flanks, and put paid to the savages on the pickets if they march from them to stir up trouble."

"Very good," replied Aranarth. "Though I shall not accompany you. My own route lies north and west of here."

"Yes, your secret entrance," nodded Earnur. "Very well. I wish you luck, for your mission is vital to our success, and we do not know what dangers you may find. The enemy has had a great deal of time to prepare snares and traps within the walls of Fornost."

"Many thanks for your concern," bowed Aranarth. "And I wish you luck as well, brother. All of us shall require it."

Aranarth then departed from Earnur, and ordered the two-score of them he had hand-picked for the mission to ready for their departure – the rest he had placed under Earnur's command, to use as scouts for the army on the battlefield. He then approached Falco, who sat by his party of Hobbits. They still appeared weary, though their little faces remained determined.

"Grave peril now lies ahead of us, my friend," said Aranarth to Falco. "Earnur, Gandalf and the Elves are marching directly into battle against the Witch King."

"That is also our purpose," replied Falco. Some of the Hobbits close by him nodded, though others shifted on their feet, sharing secret glances with each other – it was one thing to talk bravely of battle in the Shire, but quite another now that some of them had seen the Witch King's dreadful warriors from up close.

"I have my own mission," said Aranarth, "which you might have heard me mention to Gandalf during the course of our council at Breee. It shall lead me north and west of here at first, rather than directly to Fornost. A party of my Rangers shall accompany me. I would ask that your people accompany me as well."

"To lead us out of the field of battle, and out of danger?" frowned Falco. Several of the Hobbits shook their heads, though others appeared hopeful.

"To lead you into danger," smiled Aranarth grimly, "although it may prove a lesser danger to your folk than following in the wake of the Men of Gondor and the Elves. But I am going to a place where you shall be of far greater use to me than on the battlefield. As I have said before, the strength of you Hobbit-folk is not found in a contest of arms, but in your stealth; and it is your stealth I have need of."

Falco stared at his Hobbits for some moments, before turning his gaze back to Aranarth.

"As you wish," he replied with a bow. "To be honest," he continued, hissoft voice dropping to a whisper, "some of my people will be only too glad to proceed by stealth rather than in the open. Those of my clan, the Tooks, have always had a taste for adventure; but most of our other clans, our Proudfoots and Boffinses and Bracegirdles and Oldbucks and Bagginses and such like, are simple, quiet folk, who wish nothing more than to live their lives in peace. The boldest of them have followed me out of love for our land, and a desire to do their part; not out of any real yen to rush into the perils of the battlefield."

"Indeed?" asked Aranarth, though he had already guessed as much himself. "Well, that is probably very sensible of them," he smiled. "But let us proceed forthwith. We still have a long march ahead of us."

Falco bowed again, and then issued orders to his Hobbit-company, who formed up into columns. They marched to Aranarth's waiting party of Rangers, and then followed in their wake as they pushed their way through the melting snow to the secret entrance of the tunnel leading to Fornost, many leagues to the north and west.

Meanwhile, the other Rangers formed up alongside the Gondorian light infantry, placed under the command of one of a Gondorian major. Earnur issued the order to de-camp, and shortly thereafter the Gondorian army, followed by the Elves, and led by Earnur and Gandalf on horseback, began their march over the snowy meadows to Fornost and the field of war.

* * *

For two days the Men of Gondor, accompanied by the Rangers, and the Elves of Mithlond and Rivendell marched across the fields. Theirpace slowed as the last of the snow melted, and they became bogged down in the mud just as Earnur had feared they would. He had contemplated returning to the Road, but the Ranger scouts reported that nearer to Fornost there were many encampments of the enemy, and that the road had been torn-up and laid with traps in many places, so that it was no longer useable. Earnur received this news grimly, and ordered the army to continue its difficult march across the flat, dreary lands southwest of Fornost. Gandalf seemed increasingly distracted, and began with ever more frequency to gaze upward at the sky, searching deeply and muttering under his breath when he found nothing.

Then on March the fourteenth, with Fornost less than two day's journey distant, Earnur commanded the army to break out of its marching formation, and form up into battle-order. They had soon fallen into the famous Gondorian "U" formation; the twenty-thousand heavy-infantry at the centre, flanked by five-thousand heavy cavalry ahead and on each side, and another five-thousand light infantry, accompanied by Rangers acting as scouts further ahead on the flanks of the heavy cavalry – forty-thousand Men in all. Typically, light cavalry would accompany the light infantry, but Wealtheow's Northmen had been sent on their own path, and were not yet present. Thus the army of Gondor appeared from afar to be weaker than it truly was. The two-thousand Elves under Gildor, Glorfindel, Elrohir and Elladan brought up the rear guard, while Earnur and Gandalf rode just head of the heavy infantry. They spent the night encamped in this same formation, and the Men got little sleep amid the constant drills, watches and patrols of an army that was now ready for battle at a moment's notice.

The next day, March the fifteenth, dawned bright and clear, with a soft breeze blowing from the South. It might have seemed strange for the weather to have been so fine when the Witch King's lair was now very close, and that dark sorcerer was rumoured to be able to influence the clouds and winds themselves. But the purpose of the fine weather was all too clear; the long-frozen ground had melted entirely, and was now virtually a sea of mud, sucking at the ankles of Elves, Men and horses as they struggled through the mire. The land about was flat and empty, though the highest tower of Fornost was just barely visible to Elven-eyes; a thin sliver on the northern horizon, imbued as it seemed with a sickly green flame.

It was the fourth hour past noon, and the Sun was descending into the West, when the horses of the cavalry began to neigh and whinny, standing stock-still even as their masters spurred them to keep moving. The Elves frowned, and then knocked their bowstrings, reaching for the long, lethal arrows they stored in their golden quivers. Gandalf was alarmed, and urged Earnur to order the army to a halt.

Suddenly, a shadow fell over the heavy cavalry regiment that stood to the right of the heavy infantry. The horses were screaming now, some bolting, while others bucked violently, nearly throwing off their riders in their terror.

"What's the matter with you?" shouted Earnur, charging toward them on his steed. Gandalf following in the Prince's wake, riding just behind him. "Get those beasts under control and re-form the line," continued Earnur, "or I'll withhold a fortnight's wages from all of you!"

"No!" cried Gandalf, his voice husky, his grey-bearded face suddenly pale. "Fly, all of you! Run while you still can!"

"_What?_" shouted Earnur, turning his fierce blue eyes on the Wizard. "How dare you countermand my orders, you old knave! I ought to…"

Earnur never finished the sentence, for with a rush of heavy wings, and a blast of poisonous fumes he was upon them; Carakel the Silver, the dreaded Worm of Angmar!

With an earth-shattering roar, Carakel plummeted from the heavens, slamming his vast bulk into the heart of the eastward regiment of heavy cavalry. He crushed some hundreds of them underfoot, while the cries and shouts of the survivors, desperately struggling through the mud to escape his wrath, were taken up by all the Gondor-men who stared in horror at the beast. None of them had seen a Dragon before, and now they realized bitterly that the fearful tales of their ancestors the Edain, who had fought against the Cold and Fire-Drakes of the North in the Elder Days, were all too true. Moving with a speed incredible for his size, Carakel ran with ease over the trembling ground, lumbering back and forth like a great lizard, his fangs and claws and poisoned breath and sweeping tail slaying ever more Gondor-men and their horses with each passing moment.

"Form up!" shouted Earnur, bellowing now at the heavy infantry. "Prepare to charge!"

"No!" cried Gandalf, "leave that beast to the Elves. Your own work is cut out for you; look!"

Earnur followed the Wizard's arm, which pointed northward, and then swore loudly. The horizon was now black with a heavy line; the advancing army of Angmar! The Witch King had not been content to lie in wait for a siege; he had allowed the Men and Elves of the West to advance ever so close to his lair, and now he had sprung his trap.

"Westward cavalry in front of the infantry, wedge formation!" cried Earnur, barking orders to his generals as he turned away from the Dragon, riding along the front ranks of his Men. "Infantry forward; leave the Drake to the Elves! Eastward light infantry, tighten-up and guard our flanks!" The army moved forward slowly, their speed and precision hampered by the muddy ground, while the Elves ran towards the eastward cavalry, who had been nearly consumed by Carakel's assault. As they prepared to charge the Dragon, Gandalf watched them briefly, before turning and following in the wake of the Gondor-men. He had his own business to attend to, before he could help the Elves deal with Carakel the Silver…

* * *

Aranarth and his party had struggled over the muddy fields for some days, before arriving at last at the entrance to the tunnel. He had found it only with difficulty, for despite Vana's detailed description one stone seemed little different from another. But at last, it was clear; a large boulder, embedded in the side of a muddy bank, near a hedgerow whose buds were just beginning to open.

Aranarth and several of the Rangers pulled hard on the stone, at last dislodging it, and revealing the dank, dark tunnel that Vana had described. Aranarth peered briefly into the tunnel, and then turned to Falco, who along with the other Hobbits had stood by and watched the operation.

"This is where I shall need your help, my friend," said Aranarth. "You must separate your folk into two groups. The larger part shall stay here, with several of the Rangers, and disperse about the hedges and fields nearby. They shall keep a watch, and slay any servants of the enemy that come this way; for our tracks are deep in this mud, and Wargs and other fell beasts could pick up and follow our trail with the utmost ease. This tunnel shall not remain secret if they see many tracks leading to the boulder and disappearing."

"And what of the smaller part?" asked Falco.

"The smaller part," replied Aranarth, "must accompany the rest of the Rangers and myself into the tunnel. We shall journey along it, right under the walls of Fornost, and to the courtyard of the Citadel; now the lair of the Witch King himself." Falco turned pale, and the other Hobbits drew back, whispering darkly amongst themselves.

"What shall we do you help you, when we arrive in that place?" asked Falco.

"Deeds of great daring," said Aranarth. "We need to open first the Western Gate of Fornost, and secondly the Inner Gate, in the wall that encompasses the Citadel. Both will be guarded, but your folk, being small and stealthy, can risk drawing near to the levers that open the gates without alerting the guards. When the signal is given, they shall spring out and turn the levers; my Rangers will hold off the guards who arrive at the scene, until our cavalry and infantry can storm through the gates and take first the city, and then the Citadel."

"A mission of great peril indeed," frowned Falco.

"I told you I was leading you into danger," replied Aranarth with a grim smile. "Though still less danger to your folk, than if you found yourself on the field of battle at this moment, with an hundred-thousand Hill-men and Orcs and Trolls bearing down on you, and the Dragon hovering above. But come, will you aid me? My Rangers had planned on opening the gates alone, but your stealth could ease their mission, and perhaps spare many lives. No more than ten of your four-hundred need volunteer."

"I'll go," nodded Falco. "Though the thought of drawing so near to the Witch King himself is fearful to me. But, such are the perils of war. Who will join me?"

Most of the Hobbits frowned and shuffled their feet, but one by one volunteers came forth; mostly Tooks, naturally, though an Oldbuck was also present. At length, Falco had his nine volunteers, with himself being the tenth.

"Many thanks, my brave friends," said Aranarth. "Now, let us proceed." He signaled to his Rangers. Ten of whom stood by the hole, ready to seal up the entrance and then lead the Hobbits in a watch and guard against servants of the enemy who happened nearby. The remaining thirty joined the ten Hobbits, and filed into the tunnel.

One of the Rangers who stepped into the tunnel had carried a curious, lacquered case from a sling over his shoulder, and he now took it off his back, set it on the dank floor of the tunnel, opened it, and presented it to Aranarth. The Rangers and Hobbits gasped as they saw Aranarth remove Amarloke, the enchanted spear of gilded Mithril that had been presented to him by Cirdan and Gildor at Mithlond, and which he had hitherto kept secret from all others.

"A gift from friends," explained Aranarth with a smile. Taking the spear in his right hand, Aranarth then picked up with his left hand a torch that had been thrust in the mud within the tunnel entrance months before, while another Ranger used a flint and tinder to ignite it. Aranarth nodded to the Rangers on the surface, who pushed the boulder over the entrance and plunged the tunnel into darkness, illuminated only by the torch's solitary flame.

"Quietly now," said Aranarth. "It's a journey of some hours to the Citadel, and this tunnel runs deep beneath the surface; but even so we must proceed with the utmost stealth and caution. Our lives and the outcome of the battle depend upon it."

* * *

As the Army of Gondor formed into its battle order – minus the eastward cavalry, whose remnants struggled vainly against Carakel – the vast hordes of Angmar surged toward them over the muddy fields with incredible speed. To the east were columns of full fifty-thousand Orcs; and to the west, as many Hill-men of Hithaeglir and Rhudaur, both bearing ebon banners marked with the pale skull-faced design of the Witch King. Spaced irregularly amongst the forefront of both Hill-men and Orcs were massive Trolls of the Ettenmoors, bearing tree-trunks as clubs. They roared and bellowed as they charged at their enemies, their stony hides protected from the glare of the Sun by the Witch King's sorcery.

Earnur had ridded past the heavy cavalry to its forefront, and now rode ahead of them, wielding his mighty longsword, and crying "For Elendil and Anarion!" in his deep voice. His cry was soon taken up by the other Gondor-men, until their shouts echoed the roars and screams of the wild Hill-men and savage Orcs and Trolls.

The Trolls met the cavalry first, wading into them and smashing horses and men again and again with their heavy clubs. The horses screamed and bolted, many bucking their riders, while others hewed vainly at the Trolls stony hides. But the swords of the cavalry proved useless against them, merely scarring their thick hides and heightening their rage and bloodlust. The Orcs and Hill-men jeered and slavered, as they witnessed the Trolls crush and demoralize the front lines of the Gondor-men.

Earnur himself charged right at a massive Troll, which roared and bellowed, and swung its club at him. Earnur raised up his sword to parry the blow, but was knocked clear out of his saddle, and landed flat on his back in the mud as his steed reared up in panic. The Troll waded towards him, an evil grin on its blunt-featured, ugly face as it raised up a massive foot, ready to stomp him into the ground and crush out his life. Earnur held up his sword, though he knew it would prove useless against the Troll's seemingly impenetrable skin.

Then, the Troll suddenly froze as a mighty voice surged across the battlefield. That voice belonged to no less a being than Gandalf! The Grey Wizard, who had ridden close behind Earnur, stood up in his saddle. He seemed suddenly to have grown in stature, and a bright aura formed about him, as if a mighty power that lay deep within was being revealed to mortal eyes. Raising his wooden staff above his head, he cried "_Arien du-esgal, morgul kelmaeg!_"

There was a deafening clap of thunder, and the battlefield was plunged into darkness for an instant, and then seared by a flash of brilliant light. As the unnatural glow faded, restoring the light of the Sun, both the armies of Gondor and Angmar stood still in their tracks, stunned by this awesome display of wizardly power.

The Hill-men and Orcs lowered their spears and shields, their cries and screams now of fear and dismay. For the Trolls, who but a moment before were hewing at their enemies, had all turned to stone! The Witch King's spell had been undone, leaving the Trolls under the Sun's rays without any protection. Creatures formed of stone in the Great Darkness of Morgoth, they could not endure the Sun's light without sorcerous aid; otherwise the least ray of Sun was sufficient to undo the spell of their making, leaving them dumb statues. And so they stood now; each Troll was reduced to a mere block of stone, frozen forever in the position it had taken the last moment before Gandalf uttered the words of his counter-spell.

"Don't just stand there gaping!" cried Gandalf, turning to the Gondor-men. "Take up your swords against the enemy! Charge!"

With a sudden gleam of hope on their faces, and the fires of passionate courage burning in their hearts, the infantry and cavalry of Gondor cried "For Gondor! For Gondor!" as they surged toward their enemies, who fell back before them, their morale shaken by the loss of the once-mighty Trolls. Earnur leapt to his feet, tracked down his steed, which had recovered from its sudden panic, and then plunged into the fray, hewing and hacking at the enemy in a storm of flying Orc-heads and arms, of black blood and bitter gore.

Gandalf surveyed the scene for a moment, grunted, and then turned his steed and spurred in forward; not towards the Orcs and Hill-men, but towards the Carakel the Silver, engaged in fierce battle with his Elven foes.

* * *

Carakel had swiftly slain countless Men and horses of Gondor before the Elves charged him. Their gilded armour shining in the Sun, they cried "_A Elbereth! Gilthoniel!_" and drew their bows, marking the Dragon's massive form as their target.

Carkael's glowing eyes narrowed, as he turned from feasting on a score of dead Men to the onslaught of brave Elves before him. He had fought with them – yea, even with some of the very same of them – at the Great Battle of the War of Wrath, over five–thousand years before. Remembering all too well the sting of Elven-arrows, which were imbued with bitter enchantments, he lurched suddenly into the air and flew swiftly to avoid the first volley.

The arrows hissed like vipers as they hurled through the air, more than a score of them hitting their marks in the Dragon's sprawling underbelly. They could not penetrate his Mithril-armoured hide, but they lodged firmly wherever they struck, and their enchantments surged through the Mithril and into Carakel's flesh, tormenting the dark spirit that dwelt within.

Carakel roared mightily with rage and pain, as they Elves prepared to fire another volley into his thick hide. But then, his blood-lust fired by his anger, he plummeted from the air like a stone and crashed right into the heart of the Elven army!

The Elves cried out with alarm, breaking formation and running this way and that as the enraged dragon surged amongst them, slaying them with blast of his poisonous breath, and with his blood-smeared fangs and talons, and cruel lashing tail – just as he had done to the Gondor-men before. But the Elves were quick and lithe, and while many fell before him, many more evaded his grasp, firing their deadly arrows with incredible accuracy, and tormenting the mighty Dragon even more. He bellowed and screamed, his wings flapping fiercely as he took to the air again, drawing out of arrow-range before he readied himself for another assault.

"Mark him!" cried Glorfindel, the foremost warrior of the army of Rivendell. "We must keep him high in the air, before he lands again to crush more of us underfoot!"

"He is too quick," frowned Elrohir, knocking his bow regardless.

"And entirely maddened, like a bear surrounded by a swarm of stinging bees," observed Elladan.

Bellowing again, so loudly that the very ground shook, and many Elves clasped their ears in pain, Carakel hurled down from the skies again, eager to smash even more of his ancient foes. His eyes glared fiercely, and for all his pain he laughed cruelly, savouring the long-forgotten taste of Elven blood on his jaws and tongue.

Suddenly, he threw forward his wings, brakeing his flight in a desperate attempt to sail back into the air. Glorfindel turned and saw Gandalf, still mounted on his steed, raising his staff towards the massive beast.

"You remember me, it seems!" cried Gandalf, who then spoke a Word of Command. A bolt of lightening suddenly shot forth from his staff, striking Carakel broadside across the chest! As fingers of lightening traced over his armoured hide, the Dragon screamed with pain, swooping low over their heads with a beat of his heavy wings before turning and sailing straight up into the sky.

"That should hold him off for awhile," smiled Gandalf, wiping his brow. "I gave him a taste of my medicine some months ago, when he first harassed the Bree-land. He'll not be keen for any more spoonfuls!"

"He has fled from us," cried Gildor, who had ridden up and joined the Elven captains. His face was taut and grim. "Too late for my taste; many of my people lie dead. But what is he up to now?"

Gandalf's smile turned to a frown, as he followed the path of Carakel's flight; it led more than a mile distant, straight towards the heart of the Gondor-men and their heavy infantry.

* * *

For several hours, Aranarth, his Rangers and the Hobbits and followed the dank path of the tunnel, a chill cooling their blood and stirring up their fears as they drew under the walls of Fornost. Aranarth was uncertain, but he guessed that the Witch King had placed his own enchantment about his new stronghold; a Veil of Fear was perhaps a stronger guard than thick walls of stone. But he knew in his heart that there was no turning back. With words of encouragement for his Men, and especially for the Hobbits, some of whom were trembling openly, he led them on to their destination.

At last, they reached the end of the tunnel, and climbed up a narrow fight of stairs. When they stood at the top of the stairs, before a door of stone, Aranarth turned and whispered to them. "Now we stand within the Citadel wall," he said. "Beyond this door is the base of a guard tower; there may or may not be any guards before us when we open it. And beyond that lies the courtyard of the Citadel. We must now split into two groups again. Half of you Men shall hide within the guard tower, save for the Hobbits who, guided by a few Rangers, must sneak towards the lever that opens the Inner Gate of the Citadel wall, and hide nearby. The rest must follow me through the narrow Postern Gate, and then over the ruins of the city, so that we may make ready to open the Western Gate when I give the signal." The Rangers and Hobbits nodded grimly, and then divided themselves into two groups as Aranarth had ordered. Aranarth reached up and pressed the lever-stone described to him by Vana, and then the company held their weapons at the ready as the door swung open silently on its hinges.

Mercifully, they did not see a battalion of surprised Orcs standing before them, but the empty floor of the based of a garrison tower, and beyond it the courtyard and the Citadel. It was twilight, and the shadows of evening were already lengthening under the walls. Yet what they saw and smelt was no less a torment to them, and most of all to Aranarth, who had known Fornost in the days of its fairness. Steaming piles of rubbish and filth lay everywhere, dumped with abandon by the Orcish garrison. The smell was indescribable, and several of the Hobbits were quietly sick as they inhaled the stench. The walls were smeared and vandalized with graffiti, much of it gibberish, but much of it also obscene words and evil symbols. The grass of the courtyard had long since been stamped out, leaving a sea of mud. Worst of all was the Citadel itself, which glowed with an eerie, pale greenish flame, a corpse-light that illuminated nothing. A dreadful banner flew from the flagpole atop the Citadel's highest tower; ebon black, and bearing the pale, hideous skull design of the Witch King.

"This place is accursed now," whispered Aranarth, his blood running chill as he realized how near he stood to the ancient foe of his people. But then he steeled himself, and signaled to the company. Extinguishing the torch, he left in on the stairs, and they filed into the garrison tower. Aranarth reached up, finding at length the outside lever-stone, and pushed it into place, the door closing with only a slight echo as he did so. They stared around cautiously, to see if they had yet attracted any unwelcome attention, yet no enemies sprang forth. The harsh sounds of Orcish banter could be heard from up on the battlements, yet it was scattered and only occasional, as if the Citadel wall were but lightly guarded.

"Let me have a look," whispered Falco. "I can see if the coast is clear, or if any enemies stand between you and the Postern Gate." Aranarth nodded, and Falco trailed out, clutching his staff for use as a weapon in case he encountered an enemy. For several tense minutes, the company waited for him. Then, he returned, sombre but hopeful.

"Those Orc-beasts are all up on the walls," he whispered, "and there aren't many of them either. They keep gesturing and hooting, as if they're watching something from afar; the battle, I imagine. The courtyard is quite empty. I even peered into the tower in the wall by the Inner Gate, and no one's down there either. And only two Orcs stand by the Postern Gate. Our mission might not be so hard after all – though as we Shire-folk say, chickens shouldn't be counted until the eggs are hatched."

"How rustic," smiled Aranarth. "But it seems the Valar are with us. My party shall file through the postern to the Western Gate of the city; the rest shall make ready by the Inner Gate of the Citadel. The Hobbits amongst you can wait by the levers, while the Rangers hide themselves along the walls and stand guard. These piles of rubbish the Orcs have thrown about should serve as excellent cover for you."

"I shall accompany you, my lord," said Falco to Aranarth.

"So be it," nodded Aranarth. "Let us move!"

The company broke into its two squadrons, and while one filed quietly towards the Outer Gate of the Citadell wall as ordered, the other accompanied Aranarth and Falco, dashing from one rubbish pile to another as they approached the Postern Gate. Two spear-wielding Orcs did indeed stand guard, though as was the fashion of their kind they were careless, more concerned with boasting and with insulting each other than in maintaining a scrupulous watch. Aranarth made a signal with his free hand, and the Orcs suddenly found their unarmoured necks skewered by a shower of arrows, some long and heavy, others slim and light. They dropped with weapons with a clatter, gurgling as their yellow eyes rolled desperately, and then fell to the ground.

"What was that?" grunted a harsh voice from high up on a parapet. "Ugronkh! Shragnat! Get down their, you slugs, and check it out!"

"Why don't you get down there yourself, you grasping dunghill rat!" sneered another, oily voice from on high. "All barking orders and no work for you high-and-mighty officers, isn't it?" He received a snarl in reply, and the clash and clang of iron swords rang out from the battlements.

"Just as I had hoped," grunted Aranarth. "Vigilance and disciple are not their strong suits. Now, fly to the gate!" He dashed forward, his squadron close behind him, and triggered the lever of the narrow Postern Gate. The portcullis opened, and the squadron filed through. They carried the filthy corpses of the Orc-guards and their spears with them, so that the guards would appear to have abandoned their posts, rather than having fallen to their foes. Aranarth turned the lever again, and then dashed through the gate before it snapped shut. He was the last to reach the narrow bridge, which now lay under deep shadow as the Sun dipped below the Western walls of the city, and the stars began to glitter in the twilight sky. A trail of bubbles rising from the stagnant moat revealed the resting places of the Orc-guards and their weapons. Aranarth rushed across the bridge and to a pile of rubble that lay beyond; one of the many fallen houses that littered the ruins of Fornost. Fate was with him and his company again, for in their squabble the Orcs on the battlements had been distracted from seeing any of the Rangers or Hobbits file across the bridge. Now, the squadron could safely use the ruins of the city for cover, right up to the edge of the Western Gate in the city's outer wall.

"It seems a pity to still have our lads in that dreadful place, still in peril by the Inner Gate, when we already managed to open and pass through the Postern Gate," whispered Falco.

"The Postern Gate won't do," replied Aranarth. "For one thing, the Orcs will eventually cease their quarrel, and then they would discover that we had left it open. As it is they'll find it close, and simply think that its Orcish guards are shirking their duties. And in any case, while it's easy to leave the courtyard through through the Postern Gate, a hostile party entering through it would have to go single-file over that narrow bridge and then through the gate itself. They'd soon be bottlenecked, easy targets for Orcish archers on the battlements. But when we swing open the broad Inner Gate, the Citadel courtyard will soon be swarming with our Men, and the wall encompassing the Citadel swiftly taken. Then we'll just have the Citadel keep itself to worry about. But come; we must still make haste. Already the Sun has set, and we were supposed to be waiting at the Western Gate of the city by no later than sundown."

Aranarth and the squadron then set forth amid the rubble, silent shadows great and small that were all but invisible in the deepening night.

* * *

As the Sun was touching the Western horizon, Carakel veered toward the heavy infantrymen of Gondor, their sprawling mass an inviting target for the Dragon's breath and tail. He was still enraged and in pain from the sting of the Elvish arrows, and the blow dealt by the Wizard's lightening, but he was still vigorous and strong, and thirsting for revenge.

He spread his vast wings over the hapless Gondor-men, and with a mighty roar he crashed into the heart of their formation, slaying them by the tens and hundreds with every sweep of his claws and tail, and every blast of his poisonous fumes. The Gondor-men were scattered and drew back in fear, as the Orcs and Hill-men rallied and pressed turned from defense to attack against them. Earnur spurred his generals to keep their soliders in order; but the Gondor-men were terrified of the Dragon, against whom their mortal blades were useless, and the battle seemed in danger of becoming an utter rout.

Suddenly, a brazen cry echoed from the West; the peal of many horns. Carakel looked up from his carnal feast, and then saw what had hitherto eluded him in his rage and pain; the cavalary of the Northmen! Wealtheow had at last arrived, pulling within sight of the walls of Fornost at sundown on the ides of March, just as had been planned two moons before.

Bellowing again, so that the earth shook violently, Carakel shot up into the air. Though there were still tens of thousands of Gondor-men left standing, the Dragon could not resist his urge to sweep down on the Northmen, those wretched towheads who had been the enemy of his kind of thousands of years. He could have smelled them from ten miles away, were the air not thick with the stench of mortal blood. His giant wings beating fiercely, he soared towards Wealtheow's cavalry, leaving the Gondor-men to rally under Earnur's cries of "Elendil!" and "For Gondor!" as the Orcs and Hill-men fell back once again under their foes' assault. Carakel knew he could return to dealing with the Army of Gondor soon enough! First, he would taste once again the blood of Northmen on his fangs…

* * *

For some time, Aranarth and his party picked their way over the ruins of Fornost, the Rangers stopping now and again to shake their heads, and offer silent prayer for those who had once dwelt happily within the houses of the city, before they were cruelly slain by the Witch King's minions. But Aranarth, though his heart bled as much as theirs, did not permit them to wait long; already they were tardy.

At length, the squadron found themselves crouching behind the broken wall of a house but a stone's throw from the Western Gate. The towers flanking this Gate appeared more heavily-guarded than those flanking the Inner Gate of the Citadel wall, though the broad compass of the city walls themselves appeared but lightly guarded. The lever that opened the Western Gate lay inside the northern of the two guard towers, from within which sound of Orcish jeering and cursing could be heard. Beyond the walls, the din and strife of battle echoed for miles, punctured now and again by tremendous roars that could only have been issued by the Dragon. Falco and the Hobbits trembled and stopped-up their ears with their hands every time they heard that dreadful noise.

"Now is the time," said Aranarth to Falco. "The other Rangers shall stand guard here, but you and your Hobbits, and myself, shall enter the northern tower. The levers stand at the top of the stairs to the second floor. I shall stand guard, but it is up to you Hobbit-folk to sneak up to them and pull them unseen. Otherwise, my Men and I will have to charge up the stairs, and a fight with the Orc garrison will quickly ensue. But even now, I will release you from your oath, if you do not wish to dare this peril."

"I do not wish it," whispered Falco. "But I shall dare none the less." The other Hobbits turned pale, but nodded their agreement.

"Then let us go," replied Aranarth. Clutching his spear, he dashed toward the tower, peering inside the open doorway. He signaled to Falco and the Hobbits, who soon followed.

"There are the stairs," said Aranarth, pointing to a winding stair that proceeded up from the dark, stone-flagged floor of the tower. A ruddy light shone down them, and the echo of Orcish voices could be heard.

"I shall go first," said Falco with a gulp. "The rest of you wait here. No use risking all our lives, for the stealth of many is less than the stealth of one." The other Hobbits nodded silently.

"Good luck!" whispered Aranarth. "May the Valar protect you!"

"Or at least, may my feet tread silently," replied Falco, as he set aside his staff and began to tip-toe up the stairs.

For some moments, the Hobbit climbed step by step, losing sight of his companions as he approach the garrison-room above. When he finally reached the top of the stair, he peered cautiously over the rim, his brown eyes widening at the sight within. The room was lit by a blazing fire on a hearth, in which were burning bits of broken-up furniture and old books. On the far wall as the doorway to another flights of stairs, presumably leading to the battlements of the tower. Several Orcs slouched by the walls, taking deep pulls from leathern-flasks, singing and laughing harshly what seemed to be a drunken stupor. "_Sauron wished his Ring to keep_," they sang, "_but Isildur took it for himself; what a creep!_"

"What gibberish," thought Falco. "And they've no understanding of poetic meter." He continued surveying the room, until at last he saw the iron lever controlling the gate; embedded in the wall in the far side of the room.

"Just my luck," thought Falco sourly. "Now how to distract those guards, without their sounding the alarm?" His brows knit together as he frowned in concentration. Then he stared at burning chairs and heavy tomes in the fire, which had been stacked precariously on top of each other. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his slingshot, fitted it with a smooth stone, aimed it at the most precarious spot in the burning pile, and fired.

There was a shower of sparks from the fireplace as the pile of rubble crashed to the ground, scattering in flaming heaps over the floor.

"Garn!" cried the Orcs, leaping to their feet and tottering unsteadily. "I told you that wood weren't stacked right, Lugnash!" slavered one of the Orcs, wiping a trail of drool from his chin.

"Quick!" cried another. "We've got to put them fires out, before the whole damn tower burns up around us! The boss'll 'ave our heads!" Two of them rushed up another flight of stairs, searching for a bucket of water, while the third stamped on the burning books, trying to put out their fires.

"Now's my chance!" thought Falco. While the lone Orc's back was turned, he dashed across the room, leapt up to the lever, and pulled with all his might. It had not been oiled in many months, and gave a heavy, rusty groan as the iron-clad oaken doors of the Western Gate rumbled open.

"You little squeaker!" shouted the Orc, whipping around and pulling out his curved blade, which he pointed menacingly at the Hobbit. "Come 'ere!'

Falco did indeed squeak, but moreover he ran, as fast as his legs could carry him toward the stairs. The Orc was hot on his heels, but fell screaming as a hail of Hobbit-arrows were embedded in his flesh.

"You followed me up!" exclamed Falco. "I told you to wait down there." The other Hobbits smiled sheepishly.

"They followed me up," cried Arnarth, bursting forth from the shadows of the stairway. "And I came up to see what this awful racket was. So much for stealth!" He pointed upwards, where the Oaken ceiling trembled under the iron-shod boots of many Orcs, and then to the greasy Oaken-floor, on which the fires had now gained a purchase, and threatened to roar at any moment into a blazing inferno.

Aranarth thrust his spear at the lever, which cut through the iron like butter and left it shorn off at its base. "The gate won't be so easy to close," he shouted. "Now fly!" He dashed down the stairs, Falco and the Hobbits hot on his heals as the screams of furious Orcs sounded from the garrison-room above, their pursuit cut off by the spreading fires.

Aranarth and the Hobbits rushed back out of the base of the tower, and wheeled round into the archway under the open gate. Pandemonium had broken loose; the Orcs on the battlements shouted and cursed at the opening of the gates, spreading fires shot forth from the windows of the northern tower, and the Rangers who remained by the broken wall began to snipe at the Orcish garrison on the battlements with their arrows, leading the Orcs them to rush back and forth in panic and confusion at this assault from unseen foes. Outside the gates, the battle raged close to the city now, and the Hobbits shrank back against the thick stone walls of the archway as they saw for the first time the horrors of war; screaming foes, the clash and din of spears and sword on shields, the flight of deadly arrows, the thunderous charges of mighty steeds, and the stench of blood and death.

Aranarth turned his gaze to the West, and for a moment was delighted by the sight of Wealtheow's ten-thousand cavalrymen, charging toward the Western Gate of Fornost just as planned. But then his heart sank, for soaring through the air, not far distant from the walls of the city was Carakel the Silver. His heavy wings beat the air furiously, stirring up gusts of wind, his armoured hide glittered ruddily in the waning Sunlight, and his glowing eyes blazed fiercely as he soared toward his foes.

Aranarth felt his blood run hot as he saw with his own eyes the beast that had ruined his fair city and slain so many of his people; yet fear laid its icy hand on his spine as he saw that the beast was aiming straight at the Northmen's cavalry! Unless they dashed through the Western Gate as planned, occupying the city before the forces of Angmar could shore up its defences, the whole battle might prove in vain.

Bearing his long spear in his arm, Aranarth rushed to the edge of the Gate, standing just under the rim of the city wall, and out of sight of the Orcish archers above. Then he cried out, in the deepest, loudest voice he could muster:

"I am here, Carakel the Silver! Lord Aranarth of the Dunedain, Isidlur's Heir awaits you!"

The Dragon suddenly wheeled into the air, turning from his course toward the onrushing Northmen, and landed heavily on the muddy field some hundred paces before the Western Gate. The Orcs on the battlements gibbered with fear, dashing to the cityward side of the tower to exchange arrow-fire with the Rangers rather than gaze any longer on the dreadful beast, so recently allied with their master. The Hobbits cried out in terror and sank to their knees, covering their eyes with their hands. Aranarth stood tall and firm.

"I see you, Man of Arnor," rumbled Carakel, his glowing eyes shining brightly. "And I smell you."

"You smell your own death," replied Aranarth, raising his spear.

Carakel laughed, a deep, dreadful sound that shook the ground for miles. "Do you not wish to know how I recognize you as Isidur's Heir, O Prince?" he gloated. "It is the smell of your blood, which is like your mother's. Sweet was her flesh, if rather tough; but yours shall be sweeter still."

With a cry of rage, Aranarth cast his spear Amarloke, just as Carakel leapt forward, spewing forth a blast of shimmering, deadly fumes. Whether by chance, or by the will of the Valar, the spear-cast did not fail of its mark; for its sharp point sailed arrow-straight, and plunged deep into the eye and brain of Carakel the Silver! With an ear-shattering cry of rage and anguish, the Dragon soared up into the air, veering over the ruins of the city and belching poisonous fumes as he writhed in his death-agony. Then, suddenly, he plunged from the sky like a stone, crashing right into the broad moat that encompassed the Citadel. The waters foamed and bubbled as his mighty form sank beneath them, hissing and spitting at the evil vapours that bubbled forth from this watery tomb.

As the Hobbits removed their hands from their eyes, they saw a ghostly trail of deadly, shimmering vapours sail over their heads. Then they turned and looked at Aranarth, who stood wavering on his feat, his skin now deathly pale.

"My lord!" cried Falco, as Aranarth crashed to the ground. The Hobbits crawled forward, under the dissipating cloud of poisonous fumes, and grasped at Aranarth. He was still alive, but his breathing was laboured and shallow, and his skin had taken on a sickly hue.

"Quick! Pull him back into the tower!" cried Falco. Their small arms burning under the strain, the Hobbits took hold of Aranarth, pulling his heavy body over the gravel of the archway floor, and back to the entrance to the tower – the stone walls were now hot from the fire that raged above, but the smoke rose upward, and the ante-chamber of the stair was yet sheltered from Orcish arrows.

"Lord Aranarth!" cried the Rangers of behind the ruined wall, as they saw what had happened. While most of them unleashed a storm of arrows at the Orcs on the battlements, two used the volley as cover to dash toward the tower, tending as they could to their fallen lord and master. They failed to notice a Raven that had watched them from atop a nearby pile of ruins, and which cawed harshly before spreading its wings and flying at top speed toward the Citadel.

* * *

"The Worm has fallen!" cried Wealtheow, drawing his gleaming sword. "To the Gate! Charge! Charge!" With a deafening roar of triumph, and the earth itself shaking under the hooves of their ten-thousand steeds, full half the cavalry of the Northmen, led by Wealtheow himself, charged the Western Gate of Fornost. They poured through the archway and surged along the streets as they took hold of the ruined city with an iron fist.

As the mounted archers of the Northmen began to snipe at the Orcs on the walls, the other half of their cavalry who had remained outside the gate wheeled about and struck from behind at the Hill-men and Orcs on the battlefield. Those warriors of Angmar who had been demoralized by arrival of the Northmen's cavalry, and thunderstruck by the sudden defeat of Carakel the Silver, and now found themselves wedged between the ferocious attack of the Northmen to their rear, a a renewed assault by the Gondor-men and the Elves from the front. Still they fought in the gathering gloom, but step by step, they were forced back and cut down by the spears and arrows of their better-armed and better-led foes.

The Hill-men, who had already suffered terrible losses in their fight against the armoured heavy infantry of Gondor, were the first to lose their nerve. First one, then another began to trickle away from the battlefield, until the trickle became a flood. Then they broke and ran wholesale, fleeing eastward to their mountain homes, while the Northmen's cavalry ruthlessly cut them down from behind.

The Orcs proved a tougher nut to crack, for while they were ferocious and undisciplined, yet they took delight in slaughter and bloodshed, and threw themselves at their foes again and again in their madness. But their ancient blood-enemies, the Elves, charged at the Orcs and cut them down with lethal arrows and sharp two-handed pikes. Though heavily outnumbered, each Elf was the equal of a dozen Orcs in combat, and they soon drove a wedge into the Orcish forces that split them in two. The remaining Orcs found themselves besieged by Elves from within their ranks, and Gondorians and Northmen from without, yet still they would not surrender, fighting savagely to the death instead.

Gandalf, still mounted on his steed alongside the Elves, and fresh from combat with a bevy of Orcs, stared grimly at the distant prospect of the Northmen cutting down the fleeing Hill-men of Hithaeglir and Rhudaur. He had never approved of ruthlessness toward a defeated enemy; but Wealtheow had already entered the city as planned, and Gandalf himself had no authority to command the Northmen to cease from their course. Satisfied that the Orcs, who he knew would never surrender, now faced certain defeat he caught the eye of one of the Elvish captains.

"Glorfindel!" he shouted. "Leave this battle to Gildor and Elrond's sons, and follow me! There is work yet to be done in the city; the Witch King yet holds the Citadel, and for all Earnur's vows and my words at Bree I find in the breech that I am loathe to allow him to face that dark mage alone!"

"I shall follow you!" cried Glorfindel, his blue eyes shining keenly. He cut down a charging Orc with his gleaming sword, and then turned his pale Elven-steed and rode after Gandalf, who was already driving hard toward the Western Gate.

As Gandalf and Glorfindel drew near the walls, they noted to their dismay that Earnur, marked by a banner bearing the Royal Standard of Gondor, was charging through the Western Gate ahead of them in the company of a score of his elite cavalrymen. Spurring their steeds harder, the Wizard and Elf rode through the Gate after him, weaving past the debris that fell from the battlements of its northern tower, which was now burning fiercely. As they charged into the ruins of Fornost, which were now full of mounted Northmen cutting down their fleeing Orcish foes, they were interrupted by a sudden cry;

"Gandalf!" shouted a Ranger, who stood up from behind a pile of rubble. "Please, come quick! Our lord is gravely ill!"

Frowning, Gandalf pulled hard on the reins of his steed, wheeled about, and galloped toward the Ranger. Glorfindel likewise turned about and followed him. Then they saw Aranarth, pale as a winding-sheet, surrounded by a company of Rangers and several Hobbits, including Falco. The Hobbits had tears on their little faces, but the Rangers looked hard and grim.

"What has happened here?" cried Gandalf, jumping off his horse and dashing toward Aranarth's still form. "Speak!"

"The Dragon," replied a Ranger. "Lord Aranarth slew the beast with an Elvish spear; it was a sight to behold! But some of the Dragon's poisonous breath seems to have caught up with him, for he suddenly dropped like a stone. These brave little fellows," – he gestured to the Hobbits "pulled him to safety under yon tower. Then we dashed out and brought him back behind cover, dodging Orc-arrows all the way. We sent messengers for your aid, since it is plain he is beyond the skill of Men to heal."

"I must have ridden past them," said Gandalf, "though thankfully I am here none the less."

"A Cold Drake's breath is a grievous weapon indeed," gasped Glorfindel, who had also dismounted and joined Gandalf. "It is a miracle he yet lives at all." The Elf placed his long hands on Aranarth's forehead. Aranarth's breathing was terribly shallow, and it seemed clear that he was near death. Glorfindel closed his eyes, and sang soft words in the ancient Elvish tongue. Aranarth's breathing then steadied, though still his face remained shock-pale and gaunt.

"I will do what I can here," said Gandalf, who crouched down, set his staff on the ground, and reached into a leathern satchel within the folds of his grey robes. "Your Elvish-healing has drawn him back from the brink, Glorfindel, though still he lies in grave peril. But now you are needed first and foremost at the Citadel, my friend. Earnur must fight the Witch King as he has sworn, but he should not do so alone; my heart forebears it."

"I shall go," nodded Glorfindel, his fair face marred by sadness as he stared down at the Lord of the Dunedain, struggling between life and death. "Use all your powers, Gandalf," cried the Elf, running back to his steed, and spurring it towards the Citadel. "Aranarth must live!"

"I know it," muttered Gandalf, as he withdrew a dried, fragrant herb from his pouch, and held it under Aranarth's nose. "I shall not fail you, my boy," he whispered.

* * *

"Report!" cried Wealtheow, mounted atop his charger. "What is the situation on the walls?

"The walls are taken by our lads," replied an officer of the Northmen, who held up a glowing brand to ward of the shadows of the night.

"Good!" replied the general, his blue eyes gleaming triumphantly. "And the Orcish barricades by the Southern Gate?"

"Thrown down," replied the officer. "The Orcs without the walls are not yet all dead, but the Gondorian light infantry are already pouring through the Southern Gate to occupy the ruins of the city."

"Then to the Citadel!" cried Wealtheow, turning to his personal cavalry brigade; full five-score Men. "Follow me!"

The cobblestones of the streets clattered under the iron-shod hoofs of the steeds, as they drew nearer to the Citadel wall, which glowed strangely with a pale corpse-light. Muttering a prayer to his gods at this token of dark sorcery, Wealtheow cried "Sound the signal!" A trumpeter let forth three brazen peals, and then they continued their charge toward the Inner Gate of .

At length, arriving at that gate, they found it thrown open, though the clash of steel and the snarls and curses of Orcs could still be heard on the battlements. Wealtheow charged over the wide stone bridge that spanned the moat, and his Men surged into the courtyard, some nearly tripping over the piles of rubbish that were scattered about, obscured by the dark shadows of the evening.

"General!" cried a Ranger, who ran towards him from the walls. "The Inner Gate is opened as you see, but Orcs yet lie on yon battlements. Our Rangers are hard-pressed to slay the last of them.

"Dismount and up the walls!" shouted Wealtheow to two-score of his Men, and they jumped down from their steeds and drew their swords, charging towards the garrison towers whose stairs led to the upper walls. The rest surged across the courtyard, standing guard by the Inner Gate, and riding up the steps to the broad double-doors of the Citadel keep itself, which remained shut tight.

"There are no archers on the Citadel walls," observed Wealtheow. "It is strange."

"There is no sign of life in the Citadel at all, General," said the Ranger. "Perhaps the Witch King is not there."

"Coward," spat Wealtheow. "Yet that will make it easy to batten down the doors and finish this battle, all the same." He turned his gaze back to the Ranger, only to be surprised by the sight of several Hobbits, who had crept out from behind a pile of rubbish.

"Hello, my little Holbytlas!" laughed Wealtheow. "Have you had your fill of war!"

"And then some!" replied one of the Hobbits. "Falco got it easy, I think. We were nearly torn limb-from-limb by those ghastly Orcs when we tripped the lever of the gate. Thank goodness the Rangers came to our rescue."

Wealtheow was going to reply, when the clear peal of a silver trumpet sounded from beyond the Inner Gate. He turned and rode his steed back to the gate, where he saw on the far side of the bridge Prince Earnur and a score of his Gondorian cavalrymen.

"Welcome, Your Highness," cried Wealtheow, riding back toward the threshold of the Gate. "This wall encompassing the Citadel is near taken; my lads are just mopping up a few stubborn Orcs. Only the Citadel keep is left now."

"Any sign of the Witch King?" cried Earnur. "He has not yet shown his face in battle today."

"He is a coward," replied Wealtheow scornfully. "The Rangers here say the Citadel keep might not even be occupied at all. The Witch King might have high-tailed it back to Carn Dum before the battle even began."

"I trust not," frowned Earnur. "For I shall not rest until I have his head, as I have sworn. My Oath is my bond."

Suddenly, a harsh creaking and groaning sounded forth from the doors of the Citadel, as they swung open slowly on their hinges. The clashing of steel from the battlements had ceased, but now the Men fell silent, and stared through the open doors into the inky darkness of the keep.

"Perhaps we spoke too soon," smiled Earnur. "I might have my duel yet!"

The smile soon faded from his face, as he saw that which poured forth from the Citadel's open doors. Like smoke it was, or fog, and yet blacker than midnight itself, blacker by far than the shadows of the courtyard. Thrusting forth long, grasping feelers, the cloud surged down the steps, filling the yard, climbing to the top of the walls, and suddenly engulfing Wealtheow, his Northmen, and the Rangers and Hobbits within, extinguishing their torches and plunging the courtyard into darkness.

"What is this devilry?" cried Earnur, drawing his longsword. His horse shied back from the bridge, and the steeds of his cavalrymen began to neigh and paw the ground fearfully.

Then, he heard them – the screams, first distant and faint, as if from a far distance, and then loud and terrible. Earnur recognized some of the voices – they came from Wealtheow and his Northmen!

Earnur's own horse now screamed in turn, and reared back, throwing him clear out of his saddle for the second time that day. It bolted, and was followed by the steeds of the cavalrymen, some of whom desperately fought to bring their beasts under control, while others seemed infected by panic. When Earnur picked himself up from the ground, sword at the ready, he suddenly found himself alone.

The screams from the walls and courtyard of the Citadel died down, and a shroud of utter silence fell upon the accursed pile. Then Earnur heard footfalls; the steady, iron-shod canter of a horse, riding through the ebon cloud. As the cloud began to fade, Earnur stared in horror through the Inner Gate, as under the starlight he saw that the the courtyard was littered with the bodies of fallen horses and Men. But his gaze was soon captured by the being who rode forth from the gate, stopped at the top of the bridge as it stared down at him.

Mounted on his daemon-steed, its eyes glowing cruelly, the ebon-armoured Witch King held its reins in his mailed fists as he glared silently at his foe. Earnur felt his blood run cold, for he had never before seen a Man so tall, or one whose eyes and face were utterly veiled in shadow. He felt a sudden urge to turn and run - yet his courage fought against his fear, and still he held his ground.

"Depart from my path, mortal" intoned the Witch King, "and thou shalt die quickly. Stay my course and thou shalt die in torment, such that thy name shall be a byword and a warning among Men."

"This night is your last," cried Earnur, his courage returning in full at this insult to his pride. "You have cowered in your keep all day, rather than lead your warriors in battle. No longer. Stand and fight like a Man!"

The Witch King wheezed and moaned harshly, in what Earnur realized with disgust was laughter. Then he pulled his longsword from its sheath, and with an ear-shattering screech charged straight at the Prince of Gondor.

Earnur dodged aside and swung his blade to parry the Witch King's thrust. The force of his enemy's blow nearly drove him to his knees, but with incredible speed Earnur counterthrust his sword at the Witch King's mount, disemboweling it. A putrid shower of rancid flesh fouled Earnur's nostrils, but he cried out triumphantly as the beast screamed and fell to the ground, while the Witch King was sent hurtling through the air!

As the eerie flame in the falled steed's eyes flickered and died, Earnur charged at the Witch King, who had landed on his feet and quickly turned to face his foe. Their blades met in a shower of sparks, each nearly throwing the other back with his tremendous strength. The Witch King dodged and thrust at Earnur, cleaving his shield in half below the arm. Earnur quickly parried, casting aside the useless shield, and then swung a two-handed blow at the Witch King's armoured skull. The Witch King dealt a riposte, but was thrown on his back by the force of Earnur's blow.

Earnur thrust down for the kill, but the Witch King had already leapt to his feet, standing now behind him. Without time to turn around, Earnur thrust back his blade, barely blocking the Witch King from striking off his head. Then he turned, dealt his foe a swift kick to the midsection, and began to rain a ferocious, lightening-fast series of two-handed blows against the Witch King's blade.

The Witch King, plainly surprised by Earnur's speed and ferocity, now cast aside his own shield and made his own sword play two-handed. Each clash of blade on blade set forth a shower of sparks, and dealt each foe a blow of such force that it would have swept a lesser man off his feet. The Witch King possessed inhuman strength and speed, and Earnur likewise was so strong and swift that his gifts at sword play could only have come from one of his distant Elvish ancestors of the Elder Days.

For minute after minute Earnur and the Witch King fought all-out, the ring of their blows echoing against the walls of the Citadel and across the ruins of Fornost. But Earnur was the greatest swordsman in the proud history of Gondor, and at length he began to gain the advantage over his dark foe. Step by step, he pressed the Witch King back toward the moat, whose waters still steamed with the evil vapours from Carakel's sodden corpse.

With a sudden screech of fury, the Witch King then dealt Earnur a staggering blow, forcing him on the defensive for a moment. Yet the Witch King did not press his advantage, and Earnur took advantage of the lull to catch his breath, and to taunt his foe.

"Mage of Angmar, your army is defeated," laughed Earnur, "and you stand alone. Fornost is again in the hands of its rightful lord, and Carn Dum shall soon be leveled with the earth. You will never rule as King of the North! All your foul work here has been in vain."

"Thou fool!" cried the Witch King. "Thinkest thou I care for the fate of Hill-men and Orcs, or even a Cold Drake of the North? They are dross! My work here is done and done well; for Arnor is fallen, and Isildur's Heir lies dying by the Western Gate."

Earnur felt his guts twist at the news, but the Witch King continued gloating. "And if many thousands of Gondor-men lie dead upon the field of battle, so much the better," hissed the dark mage. "For the Men of the West have only begun to taste my wrath!"

Swearing loudly, Earnur charged at the Witch King, only to be thrown flat on his back by a bolt of flame that shot forth from the Witch King's sword, striking him full-on in his armoured chest. As he gasped with pain at the searing heat from his smoking armour, the Witch King lunged toward him, preparing to deal him the death blow. Yet his sword never fell, for it was parried by a gleaming blade!

The Witch King looked up, and gazed into the face of Glorfindel, mounted on his pale Elven-steed. To Earnur's eyes it seemed that the Elf-lord was suddenly veiled in radiant light, as if his fair form was but a slender vessel for the blazing spirit within. Glorfindel smiled, and charged at his foe, his steed neighing triumphantly and without any fear. A kick of its hooves, and theWitch Kingsoared through the air, his sword flying into the moat as he fell hard on his back.

The Witch King leapt up at once and gave a blood-curdling scream, like that of a carrion-bird deprived of its prey. Then the he turned and vanished into the night. Glorfindel did not pursue him, but jumped down from his steed and ran to Earnur's side.

"You are wounded gravely," cried Glorfindel, running his sword along the leathern straps of Earnur's smoking chestplate and casting aise the burning-hot armour with a flick of his blade. Then he set down his sword, pulled off Earnur's battered chain-mail and burnt jerkin, and quickly placed his hands over the sizzling burns on Earnur's bare chest. He sang words in the ancient Elvish tongue, and Earnur at once felt his pain diminish, and life course strongly within his veins.

"I am fine!" gasped Earnur, as he sat up, and then stood to his feet. He felt winded now, but still the fires of his vigour were not dimmed. "Where is that cowardly dog?" he cried. "I have sworn an oath, and I shall not stop until he lies dead!"

Glorfindel stepped back, and stared gravely at Earnur. "Do not pursue him into the night," he replied in a soft voice. "For in night and shadow are his power, and it is when immersed in shadow that the Witch King is at his greatest strength. Oath or no, young Prince of Gondor, I deem it is not your fate to send that dark mage into the Void. Far off is his doom, and not by the hand of Man will he fall."

"He shall fall by my blade!" snarled Earnur, and Glorfindel frowned as he witnessed the Prince's savage mien. But then Earnur fell into a racking cough, and sank to his knees.

"You are indeed yet wounded, despite your gallant words and my best efforts," said Glorfindel, helping him to his feet. "Come. You shall ride with me back to the Western Gate, and we shall see if the medicine of a Wizard can succor you."

* * *

Glorfindel rode fast, and within a less than quarter of an hour they had reached the Western Gate. It was fully nightime now, and the stars glittered brightly in the moonless sky, while a crisp wind blew down from the North. The fire in the tower by the gate had burnt itself out, and a tent was pitched nearby, guarded by a score of Rangers. Glorfindel dismounted, helped Earnur to the ground, and led him into the tent, which was lit by the glow of an oil-lamp within.

On a camp bed in the tent lay Aranarth, pallid and wan as a corpse. About him stood Gildor, Elrohir, Elladan and Gandalf. The three Elves had their hands laid on Aranarth's head, and were chanting softly, while Gandalf carefully spooned a medicinal broth into his mouth. Falco the Hobbit stood in a corner, staring anxiously at the stricken Lord of the Dunedain.

"I have another patient for you," said Glorfindel. "One who has faced the Witch King in single combat, and lived to tell the tale."

"The first ever who can boast such a feat," observed Gandalf, the wrinkles about his bright blue eyes deepening with concern as he stared at Earnur's scarred chest. "Be seated on the chair in the corner, Prince," he continued. "I shall tend to you as soon as I have finished giving this draught to Aranarth."

"Then Aranarth yet lives?" asked Earnur as he took his seat, while Glorfindel strode to Aranarth and joined his Elvish brethren in their mystical chant. "That fiend told me that he lay dying by the Western Gate."

"So he did – for a time," replied Gandalf. "It has been a close run thing, and Aranarth is not out of the woods yet. Not until morning will his fate be certain. But I deem – at least, I hope – that the worst is behind him. We have recalled his spirit from the shadows, and the Elves are tending to it. I am merely feeding him a draught that will strengthen his mortal body." He dipped a last spoonful into Aranarth's mouth, set aside the bowl, and then stood up. He picked up his leathern satchel from the edge of the camp bed, and strode toward Earnur.

"You are both heroes, it seems," said the Grey Wizard. "And both of you have the luck of twenty Men. For Aranarth slew Carakel the Silver by his own hand, and has survived thus far the onslaught of the Dragon's venom; while you have faced the Witch King of Angmar, and yet live and breathe."

"Aranarth's heroism is the greater," replied Earnur bitterly. "For his foe is vanquished, and mine has escaped me. If it were not for Glorfindel, I would lie dead this night."

"Come, come," chided Gandalf. "You're both lucky to be alive at all, and yours is the glory on the field of battle. Your army has finished off the last of the Orcs of Angmar, and the Northmen in your service drove the Hill-men before them like chaff before the wind. Now, let's have a look at those burns." He fussed about briefly, before reaching into his satchel, opening a wooden box, and smearing a foul-smelling ointment on Earnur's chest.

"What is that vile stuff?" asked the Prince, his nose wrinkling.

"A potent medicine," replied Gandalf, "and a gift of my cousin Radagast the Brown, who is a master of herb-lore. Your burns shall cease to trouble you by the morning, and the scars will be fully healed within a fortnight."

He smiled, his blue eyes twinkling merrily. "And now to bed with you, O Prince! You'll have an early start tomorrow."

He snapped his fingers under Earnur's nose, and spoke a Word in a strange tongue. Earnur blinked twice, yawned, and then fell at once into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	7. Elrond's Pledge

**Elrond's Pledge**

Earnur, still seated in his chair, woke after dawn to the sound of soldiers bustling about the tent at their morning chores. As Gandalf had promised, his wounds no longer caused him any pain, and the scars had begun to heal. Breathing deeply, he sat up and looked about.

"It seems you're the worse for wear too," said a soft voice to his right. He turned around and saw Aranarth, lying on his camp bed, his back propped up on several pillows.

"You're alive, by the Valar!" grinned Earnur. "Gandalf and the Elves had seemed very worried about you."

"So I've been told; by Gandalf that is," said Earnur. "He left the tent a few minutes ago, before you woke up. I haven't seen the Elves myself since I set out from the army with my company, some days ago."

"They were about, nonetheless," replied Earnur, rising to his feet. He took a deep draught from a flask of water, noting with displeasure that there was no provender about.

"Ah, both patients are on the mend, I see," said Gandalf, poking his head through the tent. "Your Men have caught up with you, Prince Earnur, and a change of clothes and armour is waiting for you. Then you can join us at the campfire outside for breakfast. As for you, Lord Aranarth, I'd prefer you to remain in bed until the noon hour at least, so that we can be sure you're convalescing properly. An orderly will bring you some gruel to test your appetite."

"I might have just lost it," smiled Aranarth wanly.

Gandalf then departed, and Earnur strode just outside the door of the tent, where a number of Rangers and of his own Gondorian cavalry were encamped amid the ruins. He hailed a cavalry officer, who at once rushed to his side, saluting him crisply.

"Fetch my clothes and armour," said Earnur. "And some hot water for washing. But first, tell me this; where are the Men who were in my vanguard yesterday? The ones who fled from the Witch King?"

"They turned themselves in to a Warrant Officer, Your Highness," replied the man. "They are currently in a makeshift brig near the Citadel."

"Good," nodded Earnur. "I'll deal with them after I've breakfasted." He returned to the tent, and found Aranarth staring at him.

"I hope you're not too hard on them," said Aranarth. "It was no ordinary foe from whom they fled."

"I know it," nodded Earnur. "That fiend used some foul sorcery to kill General Wealtheow, as far as I can tell, and several score of his Northmen. And also some of your Rangers and Hobbit friends, I'm afraid."

"What?" cried Aranarth. "I've heard nothing of that. What happened to them?" Earnur recounted what he had seen, and Aranarth frowned grimly.

"I'll be up and on my way to the Citadel as soon as I've eaten, regardless of what Gandalf has to say," said the Lord of the Dunedain. "If my loyal Men and those brave Hobbits died on account of following my orders, it is on my head. I must see for myself what has happened to them."

"It is on the Witch King's head," replied Earnur. "And there was nothing you could have done. I'd have been slain myself if I had entered the Citadel, rather than hanging back by the bridge. The Witch King planned his trap well. As for those of my Men who fled; justice demands they receive the headsman's axe, but the prerogative of mercy is still a possibility. We shall see."

With those cool words, he turned to two Gondorian orderlies who had entered the tent, and proceeded to change into a fresh pair of clothes, and stand impatiently as they clad him in a spare suit of armour. A third brought a bowl of gruel to Aranarth, who quickly downed it in proof that his appetite was unharmed. They both washed their faces and hands in a camp basin, and then strode out of the tent and toward the campfire.

"What on earth are you doing up?" snapped Gandalf, who was sitting by the fire and enjoying a mug of herbal tea. "I told you to remain in bed 'till at least noon, Aranarth!"

"No orders today, old friend," replied Aranarth. "Earnur told me what happened at the Citadel, and I must see it for myself. Also, I wish to enter the vaults of the keep, as soon as possible, for reasons you might guess."

"Humph!" muttered Gandalf, returning to his tea. "Have it your way, then. If you have a relapse and faint or get sick, don't say I didn't warn you."

"Don't worry," replied Aranarth, seating himself before the fire – the morning air was chill, even though the Sun was warm. "I've a bit of hardiness in me yet."

"So it seems," smiled Earnur, clapping Aranarth on the back, and almost knocking him over. He likewise sat before the fire, as an orderly brought him a tray containing a mug of tea, a loaf of bread, and a bowl of stew. He devoured them meal quickly and silently, in the manner of an experienced campaigner, and then turned to Gandalf.

"Where are the Elf-lords?" he asked. "I see no sign of them."

"They've pitched their own tents, well outside the walls," replied Gandalf. "They refused to spend a night in a city that has lain under the Witch King's dominion. Also, they are in mourning for those of their number who fell in the battle."

"It will be up to us Men to clean up any messes by ourselves, then," replied Earnur briskly. "We've our own dead to bury. And then, unless we're required for any other business, we'll be off to our home in the Southlands. My blood is not accustomed to the chill air here in the North – in Gondor, the grass would already be green and the fruit-trees already blossoming by mid-March."

"And doubtless your father King Earnil will be keen to see you return safe and sound," nodded Gandalf. "And to see your armies return to his fold, before the Southrons stir up any new trouble as they did over the past several years."

"Last year we gave them a thrashing they won't soon forget," grunted Earnur, rising to his feet. "They'll want some time to lick their wounds before they try any new tricks."

"That's just the trouble," muttered Gandalf, taking hold of his staff and likewise standing up. "They will forget, soon enough."

"If I might enquire of you, Gandalf," asked Aranarth, who declined Earnur's helping hand as he stood to his feet. "Where are Falco and the Hobbits who are with him? Did they…"

"They are alive and well," nodded Gandalf. "And they've been joined by the Rangers and the main body of the Hobbits that you left outside the walls to guard the tunnel entrance. They took the news of the loss of five of their number very hard, for they are only simple and tender-hearted creatures after all."

"The five Hobbits who gave their lives shall be buried with the Rangers who fell," vowed Aranarth. "All were citizens of Arnor once, and all fell in its last battle."

"The last battle of Arnor," said Gandalf. "But not perhaps of the Dunedain. Now follow me to the Citadel, if you still wish to see it rather than return to your bed."

They strode towards a party of Gondorian cavalary, appropriating three of their horses. Then they rode down the streets of Fornost, passing camps and watches of Gondorians and Northmen here and there, until they drew near a row of Gondorians, stripped of their armour and weapons, and shackled together, sitting on the ground and guarded by their fellows. They bowed their heads where Earnur rode up to them, halting his steed and staring down on them grimly.

"All of you deserted your Prince at the Witch King's approach, and left him to fend for himself," said Earnur solemnly. "Your guilt is obvious. Have you anything to say as to why I should not pass sentence on you?"

The prisoners remained silent, appearing utterly dejected – for the Soldier's Code of Gondor favoured death over dishonour, and in their own eyes they did not deserve to live. Gandalf frowed, and he and Aranarth stared at each other briefly. Then the Grey Wizard turned to Earnur, and said, "I have something to propose on their behalf, if I might act as their advocate."

"Do so," nodded Earnur, "since it seems they have lost their tongues along with their courage."

"You know well that they have never before failed you in war, and would not have failed you now had any other foe approached them," continued Gandalf. "Your Oath bound you to face the Witch King, but they could not endure his horror once his fatal Black Breath descended upon those within the Citadel. Can you be certain you would have faced that dark mage, if you had been in their shoes, and not bound by your terrible Oath to Eru?"

"I cannot," acknowledged Earnur. "It is for that reason only that I have not already consigned them to the headsman's axe."

"Then here is what I propose," said Gandalf. "Release them on probation, and let them prove their courage to you. For the Witch King's tower at Carn Dum yet stands, and it might soon become once again a stronghold from which Orcs and Hill-men and other enemies can harass the lands of the North. Send them to Carn Dum, to tear down that tower stone-by-stone. Make them swear by the Valar not to return to Gondor until they have succeeded, and to live in the wild as outlaws should their courage fail them again."

Earnur was silent for some moments, and then nodded. He turned to the prisoners, who now stared up at him hopefully. "You have heard the Wizard's proposal," he said. "I deem it acceptable. Do you so swear?"

"We swear by the Valar," cried the men, "we shall not set foot again in Gondor, until not a stone at Carn Dum remains intact. Let us live as outlaws should we fail."

"So be it," said Earnur. "Guards, release them, and equip them with horses, tools and provender for their journey northward."

"Two of my Rangers shall accompany you," said Aranarth, "so that you might proceed without straying to Carn Dum; for it is far distant over trackless wastes, and you might easily lose your way without guides. Once they have led you there, they shall depart, and it shall be up to your own efforts to topple the Witch King's tower."

"Thank you Your Highness, my lords," acknowledged some of them, as they were released one by one from their manacles.

"A good morning's work,' smiled Gandalf. "Now, to the Citadel!" They continued their ride east, and soon the moat and the Outer Walls loomed above them. The waters of the moat still hissed and bubbled, sending up shimmering fumes. Several Gondorians stood nearby, staring mournfully at the still, soaking-wet bodies of two of their fellows.

"What happened to them?" asked Earnur. "Did they drown in the moat?"

"Your Highness," replied one of the soldiers, "they sought to dive into the waters, to reclaim some of the Mithril from the Dragon's hide. But no sooner had they immersed themselves in the water than they screamed, and perished anon."

"No wonder," frowned Gandalf. "Had they no sense at all?"

"We knew not that it would be perilous, my lord," replied one of the soldiers ashamedly.

"Well, you know now," replied Gandalf shaking his head. "It is a tragedy, but sometimes Men seem to rival Dwarves in their greed for treasure."

"Spread the word amongst the army, if you have not already," said Earnur. "The moat has been poisoned and is off-limits, by my command." The soldiers saluted in assent, and then Earnur, Aranarth and Gandalf rounded the circle of the moat, at last arriving at the Outer Gate. They saw a score of soliders guarding the bridge, and well over a hundred bodies piled outside, draped in sackcloth. They dismounted, and walked toward the bodies of the fallen, observing a moment of silent prayer. Then Earnur turned to the Sergeant-at-Arms by bridge, and said:

"I am pleased to see you have recovered their bodies. Have arrangements been made for their honourable burial or immolation, according to their custom?"

"They have, Your Highness," ackowleged the Sergeant. "The orderlies will attend to them in due course."

"Very good," nodded Earnur. "Has anyone been inside the Citadel keep?"

"No, Your Highness," replied the Sergeant. "We cleared the bodies out of the courtyard, but no one was willing to enter yon keep, unless on direct orders from an officer. It has an ill-favoured look, and we fear it to be cursed."

"Cursed it may be," replied Gandalf, who noted that even in daylight the walls shimmered eerily, as if the pale corpse-light of the evening was imbued within their walls. "But I shall go in nonetheless, and Aranarth as well."

"I shall accompany you, as shall these Men," replied Earnur. "Who knows what foul beasts yet dwell within?"

"Thank you, brother," replied Aranarth, shaking his head. "But this keep is still my property, and I must ask you not to enter. Only Gandalf and I shall do so."

"That seems a strange request," frowned Earnur.

"There are no beasts nor any living thing within that keep, that I can sense," replied Gandalf. "But Aranarth has business within that he must attend to alone. I shall accompany him only to protect him from any other sorcerous traps the Witch King might have lying in wait."

"I care not to remain out here, while you face danger within," said Earnur. "But it is not my place to gainsay Aranarth's wishes with regard to this own hereditary lands. There is much other work for me to attend to outside the walls, if you do not need me here."

"Attend to your work," nodded Aranarth. "And don't worry. Under Gandalf's care, I'll be quite safe."

"One hopes so," replied Earnur, glancing briefly at the Wizard. "Fare you well!" He then turned to the Sargeant, discussing orders of the day with him.

Gandalf and Aranarth nodded at Earnur, and then strode across the bridge to the threshold of the Inner Gate, Gandalf's staff clacking loudly on the dry stones. They took a deep breath, and then entered the muddy courtyard. The air still had a bitter tang, and Gandalf's long nose sniffed it suspiciously.

"A trace of the Black Breath's stench, but nothing more," observed Gandalf. "It is indeed safe to proceed." He turned toward the steps of the Citadel keep, whose doors still lay open, like the grinning maw of a hungry beast.

"What is this Black Breath you refer to?" asked Aranarth, following Gandalf up the steps.

"A deadly spell – and a very ancient one," replied the Grey Wizard. "Had I known it was within the Witch King's repertoire, I would have gainsaid your plan to leave any Men within the Citadel at all. I read of the Black Breath in a mouldering scroll within the archives of Minas Anor in Gondor, alongside many other scross that I read when I visited that land many years before you were born. During one of Saruman's long sojourns in the East." He smiled mischievously. "When the cat's away, the mice are at play, you see."

"I don't see, actually," admitted Aranarth.

"Well. There's no reason for you to take an interest in Wizardly politics, I suppose," acknowledged Gandalf. "Suffice to say I read of the spell of the Black Breath in connection with a sorcerer long believed to have vanished from the face of the earth. That the Witch King is familiar with it confirms in my mind his true identity. It was always obvious he served the Enemy, but now it is clear that his name is not a concidence or namesake as some amongst the Wise have thought – myself included, I'm afraid."

"Meaning?"

"I shall say no more," replied Gandalf with a frown. "Not in this place, anyway. We might discuss such matters some other day."

"You always were close with your lore, my friend," sighed Aranarth.

"With good reason," asserted Gandalf. "Now, hold on a minute!" They stood at the threshold of the Citadel keep, peering at the shadowy antechamber within. A noxious stench poured forth from the keep on a current of sepulchural air.

"What we see within might turn your stomach, my boy," said Gandalf. "Are you sure you're up to this? It barely half a day since you lay near death, after all."

"I'm well enough," insisted Aranarth. "And I shall not leave this place until I have been to the vault."

"Very well," sighed Gandalf. "But there could be hexes and geases within the keep. You must promise me to stay nearby, and _not _to go anywhere other than the vault. And to leave, once you have found what you seek."

"I promise," replied Aranarth. "I would love to stroll the halls of this place again, but I know that it has been defiled, and is no longer my home. I shall take what is mine, and then depart."

"Very good," nodded Gandalf. "Let us proceed then."

They stepped through the doors and into the antechamber. Gandalf whispered under his breath, passing his hand over his staff, and the crystal embedded in the tip suddenly glowed with a clear, cold light. The rays from the staff revealed that the inside of the keep was an even worse shambles than the outside; broken furniature and piles of filth were scattered everywhere, and the walls were scrawled with obscentities.

"Disgusting creatures," muttered Gandalf, stepping beween the piles and towards the broad, winding staircase at the end of the antechamber. The stairs were set into a depression in the wall, and led both up and down.

"Aha!" cried Gandalf, pointing at the stairs.

"What is it?" frowned Aranarth, reaching for his sword.

"Nothing a sword can mend," replied Gandalf. "But the Witch King did leave at least one hex; this one over the stairway. One moment, if you please." He gestured with his staff, speaking a strange Word in a loud voice. There was a flash of bright light, and then a pillar of fame shot up the stairs, winding its way toward the roof. Aranarth stepped back in astonishment.

"You would have been warmer than you'd like, if you'd just stepped heedlessly in there," sniffed Gandalf. "This entire keep is undoubtedly a deathtrap, riddled with such tricks and snares. Now, follow me, and _do_ be careful."

They proceeded down the stairs, the evil stench increasing as they followed their course to three levels below the surface; the location of the dungeons of Fornost, and the hidden vault. The keep was utterly silent, but for the clacking of Gandalf's staff on the stones, and the scuffing of their booted feet. At length, they reached the base of the stairs, and found themselves in a broad, pillared chamber – the dungeons.

Gandalf exclaimed aloud, and Aranarth narrowed his eyes in disgust and pity at the scene before them. For to the walls and pillars were chained and nailed the skeletons and dessicated bodies of countless victims, all of whom appeard to have suffered indescribable torments.

"The last resting place of many citizens of Fornost, I fear," whispered Gandalf. "Truly, death is preferable to capture by the Witch King and those of his kind."

"This place is both a solemn tomb, and a chamber of horrors," replied Aranarth, saying another prayer for the victims of the Witch King's evil. "Let us do what must be done, and leave quickly."

Gandalf nodded wordlessly, and strode quickly across the stony floor. After some moments, they reached the far wall, and Aranarth began to reach along the walls with his hands, careful to avoid touching the skeletons still chained to them. Then, reaching high above his head, he said, "I've found it! The stone seems not to have been tripped, thank the Valar."

"I may have played a role in that," winked Gandalf. "I long ago put a spell on the vault. No one can find the lever-stone, unless they are of Isildur's line. Anyone else's hands will pass right over it."

"You always have another trick up your grey slieve, it seems," replied Aranarth. "There!"

He stepped back, as a section of the wall slowly swung outwards. Within was a narrow passageway, which Gandalf and Aranarth both followed. At length, they came to a small, vaulted room, in the middle of which stood a broad stone table.

"So the heirlooms of my House are still safe," sighed Aranarth thankfully. "A small mercy amid all the calamities we have suffered."

"And yet an important one," said Gandalf. They stared for a time at the artifacts on the table; a broken sword, an ivory scepter, a circlet of silver inset with a clear gem, and a small silver ring in the shape of intertwined skakes, filigreed with gold crowns, and bearing emerald gems for eyes.

"The sword Narsil, the Sceptre and Crown of Arnor, and the Ring of Barahir," whispered Aranarth. He hesitated for a moment, and then put the ring on the first finger of his right hand. "It is my right, as Lord of the Dunedain," he said to himself. Then he removed a satchel from within a fold of his robes, and placed the Crown and Sceptre within. He paused briefly, running his hands over the shards of Narsil, which glittered keenly in the light from Gandalf's staff.

"To think that this is the blade which felled Sauron himself!" exclaimed Aranarth. "My father never let me lay hands on it."

"Repeat not the name of the Enemy in here!" whispered Gandalf urgently. "Come, I feel a growing chill in my veins. Take your treasures, and let us depart at once."

Aranarth nodded, and placed the shards and broken hilt inside the satchel, being careful not to cut himself on their still-sharp edges. Then he swung the satchel over his back, securing it with a leathern strap, and concealed it within the folds of his long green cape.

"Let's be off," he said, and he followed Gandalf out the passage and back into the dungeons. A slight tremor shook the chamber, and then an ominous rumbling sounded from above.

"To the stairs and out the door!" cried Gandalf. "Run for your life!"

The Wizard dashed forward, with incredible speed for a seemingly old Man, and Aranarth followed in his wake. As they shot up the stairs, the whole Citadel began shaking violently, and they stumbled several times before reaching the antechamber.

"Fly!" shouted Gandalf, as they dashed between the piles of rubbish and through the open doors. They had just made it down the steps, and stood again under daylight in the mud of the courtyard, when with a deafening roar the entire keep crashed into ruins behind them! They both fell to the ground, covering their faces to avoid breathing in the cloud of dust that accompanied the crashing stones.

The noise soon subsided, and the dust began to diminish. As Gandalf and Aranarth, lay on the ground coughing, they looked back at the keep, which now lay in ruins.

"It seems there were two hexes," gasped Gandalf. "Mayhap the location of the vault and its treasures was in fact no secret at all to the Witch King; he used them a final lure, if all else failed to slay Isildur's Heir."

"I'm glad you figured that out in time," replied Aranarth wryly, before coughing again, and beginning to brush the dust off of his clothes.

"Impudent pup!" sniffed Gandalf. "Now, on your feet!" They cross through the Inner Gate to the bridge, just as Earnur and the Gondorian soldiers came rushing up to them.

"What on earth were you two doing in there?" gasped Earnur, staring hard at Gandalf. "I had thought it a bitter irony that you had recalled Aranarth to the land of the living, only for both of you to be entombed in his ancestral home!"

"That's enough criticism for one day," replied Gandalf stubbornly. "Now, let's leave this place forthwith. And we should speak with the Elves, before we head south to Bree."

* * *

Outside the walls of Fornost, at the encampment of the Elves, Gandalf, Aranarth and Earnur stood in front of the Elf-lords and Falco. Glorfindel, Gildor, and Elrohir and Elladan had all survived the battle, though nearly a hundred of their two-thousand Elven-warriors had been slain, most by Carakel the Silver.

They had gathered their fallen under a mound, which already was beginning to spring to life with delicate flowers of gold and silver. Gandalf, Aranarth and Earnur paid their respects to the valour of the fallen Elves. Than Aranarth said, "Words cannot repay the debt I owe you, my friends. I am grievously sorry for the losses you have suffered for the sake of Men."

"Not only for the sake of Men, but for the sake of Middle Earth itself did we fight," replied Gildor. "Though for my part, I feel that this is my last battle. And so do the other Elves of Mithlond, it seems. We have fought so many battles and lost so many friends over the long and weary years, our hearts despair of it. Ever more now we shall dwell in the twilight. It may fall to the younger amongst our kindred, such as Glorfindel and the sons of Elrond, to continue to aid Men in the struggle agains the dark powers - though the counsel and wisdom of the Elves of the Havens will always be at the disposal of Men of good will."

"I shall certainly do my part," affirmed Glorfindel. "I am barely more than a child in years when compared to Lord Gildor, and my spirit burns to continue the struggle against the Enemy."

"And we shall do our part as well," said Elrohir and Elladan..

"I am glad that the Elven people will continue to fight the good fight," said Gandalf. "At least, those who are not yet weary under the Sun."

"Yet all things under the Sun must fail in time," replied Gildor.

"If I might interject," said Earnur, "my Men will soon have finished burying our own dead – full four-thousand, most slain by the accursed Dragon. By your leave, Gildor, we shall march to the Havens at once to board our ships and sail for Gondor."

"We shall also leave Fornost this very day," said Gildor. "We shall accompany you, and bid you farewell at the shore. Come with me, and we can discuss the preparations for your return to your homes, provender and such that you might need for the voyage." Earnur, somewhat reluctantly, followed Gildor to his tent.

"I also thank you for your sacrifices, Falco," said Aranarth. "I am sorry that five of your number met their end. They shall lie amongst our fallen Rangers, if you wish."

"We much appreciate that honour," replied Falco, whose eyes will still red-rimmed from mourning his friends. "At least no one can say that the Shire-folk did not do their part."

"Come, Falco," said Gandalf, placing a hand on the Hobbit's shoulder. "Take me to your company, so that I can tend to any wounds, and begin to learn more of the Shire-folk. I have kept an eye on your people – for longer than you know – but it is ever more apparent to me that there is more to Hobbits than meets the eye."

"Meaning that what meets the eye isn't that impressive," replied Falco mischievously. "Well, in any case, you're welcome to join us at our camp. My folk are shy of the Big People, but some at least might be curious to speak to a real Wizard. Do you know any conjuring tricks, I wonder?"

"One or two, perhaps," laughed Gandalf, as he followed Falco towards the Hobbits' encampment. Aranarth was now left alone, with Glorfindel and the sons of Elrond.

"What now for you, Lord Aranarth?" asked Glorfindel. "Where shall your people dwell, now that their lands have been reclaimed?"

"There are hardly any of my people left," lamented Aranarth. "I received word from one of my Men that full four-score of my Rangers fell in the battle, when those slain in the field are added to those slain by the Witch King's sorcery. That means there are barely more than three-hundred of my people left now, and more of them are women than men."

He sighed. "These lands roundabout shall soon lie waste," he continued, "for they shall not fall under the plough again in my lifetime. Not only are there too few of us to cultivate them, but I deem that Fornost is accursed, by the taint of the Witch King's evil. Where we shall dwell, I know not. We cannot subsist forever off the charity of the Elves – meaning no offense to you. It seems we are fated to spend our lives wandering in the wilds, men and women both; a faded and forgotten people."

"That might seem your fate," replied Elrohir, his grey eyes narrowing in concern. "And without our help it might be so. But I implore you not to think of the aid of the Elves as charity. We are not helping you as a wealthy Man who gives alms to a mendicant, but as old friends, indeed blood-relations, who stand by their kinfolk through thick and thin."

"We have a proposition for you, if you are willing to entertain it," said Elladan. "One that we offer on behalf of our father, Lord Elrond."

"A proposition?" asked Aranarth. "Well, I am certainly curious. What does Lord Elrond propose?"

"First that you and your Rangers return not to Mithlond, but rather accompany us to Rivendell."

"With respect, my Men will be reluctant to accept such an offer," replied Aranarth apologetically. "Many of them are married, and keen to return to their wives at the Havens."

"There is more to our proposition," smiled Elrohir. "We know your menfolk miss their wives, but their separation from them need not continue for long. Lord Elrond is willing to allow the remnant of your people, the Dunedain of the North – who are his cousins, by descent from his brother Elros – to dwell at Rivendell. When your Men have settled there, they may send for their womenfolk at Mithlond, and we shall send n company of Elves to escort them on the long, lonley road from Mithlond to their new home. Then your people shall all be reunited under Lord Elrond's roof. Rivendell shall be the refuge of your folk, a place where you can find safety amid the perils of the wild."

"I am honoured, my friends," replied Aranarth solemnly. He was silent for some minutes, and then said, "I am willing to entertain your offer, though uncertain as to the mood of my Men. I could use my authority as Lord to compel them to accept this course, but it would be preferable for them to follow it of their own free will."

"Then invite them to accompany us homeward, and judge for themselves when they arrive at Rivendell if they wish to settle there along with their womenfolk."

"I shall do so," nodded Aranarth, turning towards the distant encampment of his Rangers. "And I am hopeful that they shall accede to your wishes and mine."

* * *

Before that evening had fallen, the armies had finished burying their dead, and had decamped and begun their march to their homelands. The Road had been abandoned by the outlying garrisons ofOrcs and Hill-men, but it was still blocked by pickets, and torn-up in many places, so the Elves, Men and Hobbits strode by the side of the road through the fields. Their march lasted full three days, during which time the weather again turned to blustery winds and light rains. The Gondor-men grumbled that they sooner they returned to their own balmy homeland, the better.

On the afternoon of March the 19th, they arrived at the outskirts of the Bree-land, and then turned back onto the South Road. They passed the villages of Archet, Coombe and Staddle and arriving in the evening in the fields outside the Bree-town. There they bade their farewells; for the Men of Gondor, Elves of Mithlond, and Hobbits of the Shire would follow the West Road to their homelands or their ships, while the Elves of Rivendell and the Dunedain Rangers – who had assented to their Lord's proposals – would follow the East Road to the House of Elrond, accompanied by Gandalf.

Gandalf, for his own part, had marched south with the Hobbits, and had enjoyed their company. Turning to Falco, he said "Farewell, by dear friends! You have all given Hobbits a good name amongst Men and Elves."

"Farewell to you, Gandalf the Grey," bowed Falco. "I am glad to hear that you think highly of the Shire-folk. Should we find ourselves in trouble again, I hope you will do

what you can to succor us."

"I shall do more than that," replied Gandalf, who still regretted his failure to protect the Shire from the ravages of the Dragon. "Though I must now turn east to Rivendell, yet I shall set out for the Shire when the leaves begin to turn ruddy and gold in the autumn of the year. I wish to learn more about your people and your lore than is possible for an outsider, and also to counsel you on how to govern your lands now that there is no longer a King on the throne at Fornost, and no longer a sizeable army of the Arnor-men to preserve order in the North. And you have my word that I will always keep an eye on your folk and your lands in the future. You can depend on the Grey Wizard as your friend."

"I am honoured, Gandalf," replied Falco, bowing again. "And you need not put up at an inn during your stay in our lands. I am sure my father Bredegar would be more than happy to receive you as a guest in our Great Smialls at Tuckborough. You would be a welcome guest at our Yuletide and New Year's feasts."

"I shall be delighted," laughed Gandalf. "Though you should be warned that I've been accused of eating my hosts out of house and home on more than one occasion."

"You'll be hard-pressed to outdo us," grinned Falco. "We Shire-folk are renowned for our gourmandry. Why, at the Yuletide feast alone, there will be roast geese, hams, sausages, stuffings and dressings, pies, dumplings, relishes, pickled vegetables, mince tarts…"

"Stop, stop!" cried Gandalf. "I don't need a menu, and you're making me hungry already. I shall witness the wonders of your feasts myself, before the year is out!" And with that, he waved farewell, and spurred his mount towards Aranarth and the Elf-lords of Rivendell, while Falco rejoined his Hobbit company.

Meanwhile, Earnur and Aranarth stood apart from their own Men, each giving the other his best wishes, and Aranarth again giving Earnur his heartfelt thanks for Gondor's aid. Then Earnur said:

"I have heard from my lads a rumour among yours that you're planning to settle your people at Rivendell. Is that so?"

"It is," replied Aranarth. "Fornost is accursed and forsaken, and at least at Rivendell we shall be amongst kinfolk, however distant. It is better to dwell under a solid roof and within stout walls than in the open, or in rude cabins, especially in the dark winters of these northern lands."

"That is true," frowned Earnur. "But we Men of Gondor are also your kinfolk, and far closer to you in blood than Elrond and his offspring. If you will no longer attempt to rule these lands as King – and that seems a prudent course, if an unfortunate one, given how few of your people are left – then perhaps you should consider settling with your people amongst we Dunedain of the South. It shall seem less strange to you to dwell among Men than among Elves, and we could use your stealth and warcraft against our ever-present foes, the Southrons and Easterlings."

"I appreciate your offer, brother," smiled Aranarth. "But I must decline, for two reasons. First, while I can no longer rule over the lands of Arnor as a King should, I am loath to depart from them entirely. The history of Isildur's House is bound up intimately with the soil of these lands."

"I suppose I can appreciate that," replied Earnur. "Gondor is likewise dear to my own heart. But what is the second reason?"

"A more practical one," said Aranarth delicately. "For while I no longer claim the title of King, I would still be seen as such by your father Earnil. And two Kings cannot dwell under the same roof. My regal status, by your laws and ours, is no less than that of your father's, and my people could not swear an oath of loyalty to the King of Gondor alone. For them to dwell in your land would only lead to trouble in time."

"That hadn't occurred to me," shrugged Earnur. "But aren't you living under Lord Elrond's roof? Who then shall have the mastery of your people?"

"I shall have the mastery over my folk," affirmed Aranarth. "But the case is different; for Elrond and his people are of Elven-kind, and his land is an Elven-land which has never lain under the sovereignty of the Heirs of Elendil. There cannot be any claim on the part of Lord Elrond and his sons against my own heirs for the leadership of the Dunedain of the North; nor could I or my heirs ever stake any claim to the lordship of Rivendell. Whereas there could be rival calims between my heirs and yours for the the alliegance of my folk, and even for the Kingship of Gondor. At Rivendell we shall be Elrond's guests in his own sovereign land; nothing more or less."

"Humph," grunted Earnur. "Well, I don't know about all that. But then I've never been much for politics. Give me a sword in my hand and an enemy to slay, and I know what I'm about; but set me at a council table with cunning greybeards and their smooth words, and sometimes I feel like a ship adrift at sea."

"Perhaps that's all for the best," laughed Aranarth. "Gondor has more need of your sword-arm than of another councilor at the King's table."

"So I keep telling my father," smiled Earnur. "Farewell then, Aranarth. May the Valar protect you and yours."

"And may you also find their grace," replied Aranarth. They clasped each other's hands, and then parted and turned towards their own tents.

* * *

The next morning, March the Twentieth, found the armies of Gondor, Mithlond and the Shire already departed along the West Road before dawn, while the army of Rivendell and the Dunedain Rangers camped in the fields outside Bree. Gandalf was absent for nearly an hour, before returning with a small barrel of the finest ale from the Prancing Pony – "It's a long and thirsty road to Rivendell", he had explained. But by the second hour past dawn they were on their way, riding along the East Road past the fields and ochards of the Bree-land on a warm, sunny day, as the spring flowers began to peep their heads above the soil in earnest, and the song of birds began to return to the treetops.

They marched for a day in that land, until they passed the Forsaken Inn, a haunt of many peddlers and Dwarves who ever plied the Road through the lands of the North in pursuit of coin and barter. Then they left the Bree-land, and entered into the wild lands that stretched for many long leagues eastward to the foothills of the Misty Mountains, wherein lay the Last Homely House of Elrond.

The journey became slower now, for east of the Forsaken Inn the Road had long ceased to be maintained. Moreover once the marshes of Midgewater were passed and they reached the ruined tower of Amon Sul, the land began to slope uphill – first gently, but then more steeply and steadily. Thus it was not until the fifth of April that they reached the Last Bridge, which vaulted over the broad, swift waters of the river Hoarwell.

There, halfway across the span, which was build from solid blocks of granite, they came upon a company of two-score Dwarves traveling westward. The sons of Elrond hailed them, and they halted from their march, staring warily up at the tall Elves and Men who blocked the Road before them.

"We are Elrohir and Elladan, the sons of Lord Elrond Half-Elven of Rivendell, and we are journeying homeward," said the two brothers. "How fares it with you folk of Durin?"

"We are not of Durin's folk," replied a thick-set, brown-eyed Dwarf with a heavy black beard, garbed in dun-coloured traveling clothes and wearing a robe of rich blue cloth – evidently their leader. "My name is Grombor son of Nombor," continued the Dwarf, "and these are by kinfolk. We are not from Khazad-dum to the south, but from the Iron Hills, far to the east of Mirkwood, and we are traveling a long and weary way to the mines of our cousins in the Blue Mountains far to the west."

"Is there any news from the Road?" asked Glorfindel.

"We are miners, not messengers," scowled Grombor. Glorfindel frowned, as if taken aback by the Dwarf's brusque tone.

"For what cause would you undertake such a long and perilous journey through the haunted eves of Mirkwood, and over the Orc-infested passes of the Misty Mountains?" asked Aranarth.

"Must Dwarves make an account of themselves to Elves and Men?" asked Grombor, folding his arms across his chest. "Our business is our own, stranger."

"Peace," replied Aranarth, holding up his hand. "Though you should know that you speak to the rightful lord and heir of these lands. I am Aranarth son of Arvedui Last-King of Arnor."

The Dwarves stood back, mumbling amongst themselves. Then Grombor turned to Aranarth, bowing deeply.

"My apologies, Your Majesty, if any offense was caused," replied Grombor - though his eyes remained hard and suspicious. "You are dressed in the fashion of a ranger or hunter, and not in a kingly manner - hence my confusion. But why do you refer to your father as Last-King? If you are the rightful lord of these lands, then your father must have perished – the blessings of Aule be upon him. Are you not King yourself now?"

"I am by right," replied Aranarth. "But I claim the title no longer. Arnor has fallen into ruin, and the Rangers you see with me are all that are left of the menfolk of my people."

Grombor raised his dark eyebrows in astonishment, and the Dwarves fell into another conference, whispering to each other in the Secret Tongue that they teach to no one apart from their own kind. Then Grombor turned back to Aranarth again, and said, "That is grievous news, Aranarth Arvedui's son. We have heard nothing of this in the wilds of the East. How could the North Kingdom of Men have fallen?"

Aranarth briefly recounted the tale to them, while the Dwarves stroked their beards, and shook their heads grimly. Then Grombor said "I am pleased that the vile Witch King has been ruined, as he deserves. We heard legends of his villany even in the Iron Hills. But you have told an evil tale, and it adds to our own troubles. We have fled the East, for the shadow of darkness grows ever stronger there. We were traveling to the mines of our cousins, because we hoped to find peace in the West. But now you tell me that your kingdom of Arnor has fallen. Who shall preserve the westlands from chaos, if a King no longer sits on the throne?"

Aranarth frowned, and the sons of Elrond stared grimly at him. Gandalf watched the proceedings keenly, but said nothing, apparently willing to let events take their own course. Then Elrohir said, "You have your business, Grombor son of Nombor, and we have ours. Suffice to say that how to preserve from harm the mortal folk who still dwell in the lands between the Misty and the Blue Mountains is one of our foremost concerns. Lord Elrond shall do all that is in his power to defend these lands against evil."

"I've never known an Elf to care overmuch for the welfare of others," scoffed Grombor.

"And I've never known a Dwarf to care for the welfare of others at all; though such has always been the way of your folk," replied Elrohir haughtily. The Dwarves muttered angrily, and began to reach for their axes, but Aranarth intervened.

"Peace once again!" he cried. "Let us not come to blows here, over the old hatreds and rivalries of Elves and Dwarves. Your kindreds and mine have more in common than we have apart; for all of us are hated by the forces of darkness, and our divisions only further the cause of evil."

"Fine words," replied Grombor. "Though we Dwarves prefer to settle quarrels with our axes rather than with fancy talk."

"I'm sure no quarrel is intended," replied Aranarth. "You may pass freely on your way, Master Dwarf, as we shall pass on ours."

"And you needn't linger near the lands of Elrond, Dwarf" offered Elladan cooly. "Make your way to the Blue Mountains as you wish, and have a care to show better manners to Lord Cirdan than you have to us."

The Dwarves scowled again, and Aranarth exclamed, "Both the haughtiness of Elves and the stubbornness of Dwarves are proverbial, and it seems today has provided new fodder for the tales told of both your peoples by Men. Let us end this bantering here and now, and continue on our way!"

Both Elladan and Grombor stared at Aranarth for a moment, for he seemed suddenly to exhibit a majesty and innate authority out of keeping with his rough appearance. Then they nodded and, without further word to each other, the companies of Elves and Dwarves resumed their marches across the Last Bridge, giving each other a wide berth as they passed in their opposite directions, while the Men followed in the wake of their Elvish friends.

"A curse on the pride and stubbornness of both Elves and Dwarves," whispered Gandalf, riding up beside Aranarth. "But the day is coming when they will have to align with each other against the Enemy, or else fall into ruin altogether." Then he spurred his horse forward, leaving Aranarth in the rear of the company.

Aranarth fell into an ill humour as he contemplated the divisions between the Free Peoples of the world, but kept his thoughts to himself.

* * *

A futher ten days passed as the followers of the Elf-lords and of Aranarth traveled eastward along the Road under the eves of the Trollshaws. The buds on the Oak and Beech trees of those woods were opening into green leaves, and the springflowers graced the land with their bright colours and delicate scents. Still, the Rangers and Elves were wary; meandering Trolls from the Ettenmoors often lurked in those parts, seeking to prey at night on unwary travelers along the Road.

Yet no Trolls were encountered, and the company passed without incident to the Ford of Bruinen. They crossed the waters of the Ford, and thereby passed over the ancient border that separated the realm of Arnor from Elrond's realm of Imladris, or Rivendell as it was known in the Common Tongue of Men.

They spent the night encamped along the eastern shore of the river, and then on the next morning, April the sixteenth, they began the long climb over the rocky moorlands that led to the House of Elrond. The Misty Mountains now loomed above them to the east, their snowy peaks soaring full two miles into the sky, and a cool wind ever blew down from them and scoured the moors to their west. But the Elves at least were in a high humour, for they had almost reach their fair home in its sheltered valley. Effortlessly finding their way over the moorlands, where the road had lapsed into a narrow track that was barely more than a sheepath, they began to sing in the tongues of Elves, as the Rangers as not heard them do throughout their long journey together. Glorfindel and his High Elves sang epic ballads in the Quenyan tongue of great heros and marvels of old, while the Grey and Green Elves who made up the greater part of Elrond's subjects sang in their Sindarin tongue light-hearted compositions of more recent vintage, concerning the beauty of trees and flowers, and the adventures of butterflies and birds.

At length, they descended from the high moorlands into a steep-sided valley, and wound their way along a narrow path through stands of ancient Pine and Spruce trees and over a chilly, shallow stream that bubbled merrily over its boulders and pebbles. Then, as the Sun sank into the West, and the Stars shone bright and clear in the twilight sky, the company again crossed a winding stream over a narrow stone bridge. There they came upon a broad, flowery meadow nestled at the bottom of a deep, forested gorge. Above the meadow sat the House of Elrond, known far and wide as the Last Homely House west of the Misty Mountains.

The windows in the long, half-timbered, many-gabled House shone cheerily with candles and torchlight, and a large party of Elves strode out of the broad gates to await the company in the meadows, singing cheerily as they greeted their kinfolk in welcome. Gandalf and the Elf-lords hailed them, and then dismounted, beckoning Aranarth to follow. He did so, and soon stood before a tall, slim Elf, blue-eyed and wise, his long dark hair bound with a circlet of gold. Aranarth bowed deeply, for he knew it could be none other than Lord Elrond himself.

"Welcome to Rivendell, Aranarth son of Arvedui," said Elrond, pointing toward the gates of his house in a sweeping gesture. "We have long awaited your arrival, and I am pleased to see that your Dunedain menfolk have accompanied you. Enter! A feast awaits to assuage your hunger, as do warm baths and soft beds to comfort you after much hardship and toil. We will take our council when the time is right; for now, relax and enjoy yourselves in your new home!"

* * *

Some four days had passed before Aranarth again sought out Lord Elrond. He found Elrond and Gandalf sitting on a wooden bench in the Gardens, amid laughing silver fountains and strange and wondrous trees and flowers, the likes of which Aranarth had never seen before. Strangely, Aranarth found Rivendell to be both stranger and more familiar to him than the Elven land of Mithlond – it retained an element of hidden magic and enchantment that no longer seemed to be present in the lands of Lindon, yet somehow it was also more familiar and welcoming to the sons of Men.

As Elrond and Gandalf were talking, amid the song of birds and a gentle rain of flower petals from the blossoms of the trees, they looked up and took notice of Aranarth, who had doffed his Ranger's gear for a grey robe and tunic of the Elven fashion. Elrond gestured to Aranarth to be seated, and he sat down next to the Elven lord on the bench.

"How fares it with you this morning, Lord Aranarth?" asked Elrond, who was garbed in a flowing robe of deep blue wool embroidered with cloth of gold.

"I feel like a new Man, my Lord Elrond," replied Aranarth, breathing deeply the flower-scented air. "There is a deep peace and calm in this place, such as I have never felt before, and the stars shine more brightly in the evening than in any other land I have seen. You are blessed to call Rivendell your home."

"I trust you also call it your home, now," smiled Elrond.

"I believe I will come to think of it as such," acknowleged Aranarth. "Though I can never forget Fornost, nor erase from my heart my grief at its destruction."

"There is no reason why you should," replied Gandalf. "But a Man can learn much wisdom from weaving the thread of sorrow into the fabric of his life, as long as he does not cease to weave in happiness and joy as well. All those who dwell under the Sun must face both the good and the bad that this world has to offer."

"And we Elves know that better than most," nodded Elrond. Turning to Aranarth again, he asked, "Shall you send for your womenfolk, if your men are resolved to live here?"

"I was going to discuss with you precisely that," said Aranarth. "Your sons offered that our could be sent here under Elven-escort, though I do not wish to impose such a burden on you. Now that my Men have seen Rivendell, and have fallen in love with it, it will not be difficult to persuade them to take the long road west to the Havens, and then return with their wives and cousins and sisters."

"So bet it," nodded Elrond. "Though they should depart by the May Day if they are to reach Mithlond and return here with all your people by autumn."

"I shall talk with them, and we will sort out the matter," replied Aranarth. "I must thank you again, Lord Elrond for your hospitality. Our people do not wish to be a burden on yours; we will do our part in any way we can to strive for the common good."

"I am pleased to here it," replied Elrond gravely. "Evil days lie before us, more so than you have seen thus far. The perils faced by your sons and grandsons will exceed those faced by you."

"Indeed?" asked Aranarth, somewhat incredulous. "With all due respect, my lord, I cannot imagine any peril worse than the Witch King of Angmar. And he has now been defeated, and driven from these lands."

"And so you think the North free from peril?" asked Gandalf, his bushy eyebrows shooting up.

"No, to be sure," acknowledged Aranarth. "Orcs and Trolls and other vile creatures still threaten the land, of course. And now that my people are reduced to a shadow of their former strength there will be a growing threat to decent folk, such as the Hobbits and Bree-men, from the brigandage and outlawry of the wicked – even as the Dwarves we met on the road feared, Gandalf." Gandalf nodded in assent.

"All my Men of fighting age shall become Rangers," continued Aranarth, "and we shall do what we can to maintain order in our former realm, at least in those parts along the Road."

"And I trust they will do their part to help secure the Shire-folk and Bree-landers?" asked Gandalf.

"Of course," assured Aranarth. "The Shire-folk in particular; for they are good and kindly, and brave in a pinch, yet I fear gravely what will happen to them if their borders are not guarded by strong and watchful Men."

"That is what I hoped to hear," smiled Gandalf. But then his face was creased by a frown. "Still, Aranarth, your belief that your successors shall face no greater perils than yourself is thoroughly mistaken."

"I have witnessed the entire history of Arnor," observed Elrond. "I was present at its birth, when I sat at council with your forefathers Elendil and Isildur, not a stone's throw from this spot. I witnessed the long years of its peace, and its slow and steady decline, and all the efforts of Gandalf and my sons and kindred to save Men from their folly, and thwart the rising tide of darkness. And now I am present at its fall." He sighed deeply, and Aranarth noted that his eyes seemed sad and weary, as if he calmly bore a burden of memory and grief that would long since have crushed a mortal Man underfoot.

"But know this," continued Elrond, his eyes now hardening and his face assuming an even graver mein. "The fall of Arnor cannot be seen properly by itself, as if it were an isolated event. It is part of a broader tapestry, woven by a master of intrigue and treachery, of stratagem and deceit. All that has transpired thus far was foreordained ever since the Battle of Gorgoroth, two-thousand years ago."

"I don't understand you, my lord," frowned Aranarth. "But I have never spent as much time as my studies as I should, being too busy in the field."

"Or perhaps merely too idle to read the scrolls and books I assigned to you as a youth," huffed Gandalf.

"The lore of ages is not part of the memory of Men, but must ever be renewed by dillgent study," chided Elrond. "You must begin to learn of it in depth, and your heirs as well, when they are born onto you. It contains the keys you need to understand both the immensity of our common peril, and the means by which we might search for ultimate victory. Rivendell is the best place in all Middle Earth to do so, for even the archives of Minas Anor lack the depth and breadth of lore you will find in my library."

"At least, that is true for most matters," observed Gandalf. "Certainly it is true of Elven lore, and of the history of the long struggle of the Elves and the Fathers of Men against the forces of evil. But since it will take years for you to learn in full what you must, Aranarth, we shall explain to you the situation in a nutshell."

"Despite my dearth of book-learning," said Aranarth, somewhat defensively, "I find that on reflection I can guess at your meaning. You mean that the threat posed by the Witch King has not ended, simply because he has fled from the North. There are still many broad lands in the East and South in which he can work his mischief, and do harm to the people of Numenor-in-Exile. He boasted as much to Earnur, during their duel."

"What you say is right – as far as it goes," nodded Gandalf. "But even the Witch King is a piece on the board. He is not the chessmaster."

"Then who is?" asked Aranarth.

"Your distant forefathers would have known without asking," said Elrond.

"Yet even Isildur in his folly did not truly understand," interjected Gandalf. "And his heirs followed in his footsteps. By the time I arrived on the scene, and had taken fully the measure of the Arnor-men, I deemed it of the foremost importance to focus their efforts on the immediate peril posed by the Witch King, rather than to understand the place of their own chapter in the broader story. And to know the grim truth might only have demoralized them in any event. But now that Arnor has in any case fallen into ruin – Alas! – we shall wipe the slate clean with you, Aranarth. You and all your heirs must understand fully the nature of the peril facing us."

"I do wish you would simply tell me what that peril is," sighed Aranarth. "It seems I am unlikely to guess it myself."

Elrond and Gandalf stared at each other. Then Gandalf nodded, and Elrond turned back to Aranarth and said, "The peril is simply this; that the Witch King, and his Orcs and Trolls and evil Men and other minions, are nothing more than pawns in the hands of Sauron the Abhorred, who is now, as ever, our relentless Enemy. For nearly two-thousand years has he hidden in the shadows, pulling strings from behind the scenes as he plots and schemes to restore his dominion over Middle Earth."

"Come now!" exclaimed Aranarth, standing upright. "With all due respect, both of you are surely putting me on! Every Man knows full well that Sauron was slain in the Battle of Gorgoroth. Even a child knows as much."

"Proving that grown Men in these times are no wiser than ignorant children," replied

Gandalf brusquely. Aranarth stepped back, abashed at his mentor's stinging rebuke.

"Take your seat, Aranarth son of Arvedui," said Elrond, "and listen to our lore." Aranarth did so, and the Elrond resumed speaking.

"You forget that I was at the Battle of Gorgorth myself – the last battle that I ever fought. With these very eyes, I witnessed the terrible form of Sauron the Dark Lord, his slaughter of the High Kings Gil-galad and Elendil, and his miraculous defeat by your forefather Isildur. Will you not then lend credence to my words, when I tell you of matters relating to Sauron and his fate?"

"Forgive me," replied Aranarth ashamedly. "I forgot myself and spoke unkindly to you."

"You need not ask for forgiveness," replied Elrond, "but rather listen and believe. Sauron was defeated at that battle, and his body destroyed. Yet he was not slain; for his essence was contained in his One Ring, which survived when Isildur claimed it for himself. Surely you have heard the tale of Isildur and the Ring?"

"Do you mean the legend of Isildur's Bane?" asked Aranarth. "Of course. Isildur took some trinket or talisman from the Enemy, which had the power to make a Man invisible. He was ambushed by Orcs at the Gladden fields, and tried to use the trinket to flee; so reported his squire Othar, who alone of his company escaped to Rivendell and then made his way to Arnor. Othar reported that from afar, as he fled from the Orcs, he had seen Isildur disappear, only for his arrow-laden body to reappear as it floated down the Anduin. A party of Arnor-men was sent in force to scour the Gladden Fields some months later, but found no trace of Isildur or his talisman; and that chattel is called Isildur's Bane, since its power of invisibility failed him when he needed it most."

"Which goes to show how tales can be twisted in the telling," replied Elrond. "The tale as you have stated it is in truth not a legend but fact, albeit incomplete in its essentials. Isildur's Bane was nothing less than the One Ring, the ancient weapon of the Enemy, and to confer invisibility on a mortal is by far the least of its powers. It contains the essence of Sauron's potency, and the means by which Sauron hopes to rule Middle Earth until the end of days – how, you shall learn in your own studies at my library. But suffice to say that Isildur was both the means by which Sauron was defeated, and the means by which his essence and his lust for dominion were preserved. For Isildur cut the Ring from the Enemy's hand, and destroyed his physical body; yet he did not destroy the Ring in the fires of Mount Doom, as both Lord Cirdan and I pleaded for him to do. It survived to betray Isildur to his death - and to guarantee that its dark master would some day return."

"Then you mean Sauron walks again in Middle Earth, here and now?" gasped Aranarth.

"We cannot jump to that conclusion yet," replied Gandalf, shaking his head. "For our purposes, whether he has returned and lives in hiding, or still dwells in the shadowlands, is not our foremost concern – though those of us who number amongst the Wise have our varying theories and opinions. The point for you to grasp, Aranarth, is that the fall of Arnor, and the deeds of the Witch King, are all Sauron's doing. He has long sought the downfall of the Men of Numenor; and now, he has destroyed your kingdom in the North. The fall of Arnor is a great victory for Sauron, and he has taken a mighty stride along the road to his dominion over Middle Earth."

Aranarth was silent for a time. Then he said, "I understand now our peril, and begin to see the larger picture. Yet you have implied, Lord Elrond, that had this Ring been unmade then Sauron would have met his final doom."

"That is correct," replied Elrond. "He would become an impotent spirit of malice, as incapable of causing further harm to Middle Earth as his dark master, Morgoth Bauglir."

"Though still the taint of his evil would linger and fester, leading in time to new perils and strife," added Gandalf. "So it has been with Morgoth's lingering evil, woven now into the fabric of all things under the Sun. The harm that evil has done, once unleashed upon the world, can never be fully undone as long as the world itself exists."

"I understand," nodded Arnarth – in fact he did not, but cared not to admit it. "But you said this Ring was lost by the Gladden Fields. That was nearly two-thousand years ago. Has it not been found in all that time?"

"No," replied Elrond. "More than one search has been conducted for the Ring, utterly without success."

"The Anduin is a river broad and deep and swift," said Gandalf. "The Ring might lie where it fell, buried under many feet of thick mud and gravel; or it might have rolled far across or far down the riverbed, under the influence of the current; or it might even have rolled all the way down into the Sea, and be lost forever. But that which is lost still exists; and as long as the Ring exists, the shadow of Sauron will glower over Middle Earth."

Aranarth was again silent, as he struggled to digest all the lore that he had learned that day. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders, and said, "I accept the truth of all that you have told me, my lords, even if I do not fully understand all of it. But I cannot guess what this lore means for me, in the here and now, or for my people. It is to their welfare, and the quest to preserve such order as we can in my fallen realm of Arnor, that I must look first and foremost."

"Here you are less shrewd than you should be, Aranarth," frowned Gandalf. "What we have told you is of the direst and utmost importance for you and your kin in the here and now. For what it means is that Sauron and his minions will not be satisfied by the fall of Arnor. Earnur told me that the Witch King had taunted him, boasting that you lay dying by the Western Gate of Fornost. That dark mage saw much, yet not enough; not that I and the Elves would restore you to life and health. The Witch King would never have fled the battlefield if he knew Isildur's Heir yet lives and breathes."

Gandalf sighed. "Yet surely he shall discover it, sooner or later; and when he does, Sauron will know of it. Then you and descendents will be hunted for all your days, marked for death; for Sauron seeks the annihilation of the heirs of the High King Elendil, and most of all the heirs of his nemesis Isildur."

Aranarth drew back, his blood turning chill at Gandalf's grim prophecy.

"Thus you see it is no mere charity that has led me to offer you and your people Rivendell as a refuge," said Elrond. "For the race of Men shall fail and fall into abject slavery forever, unless they have a King to lead them to victory against the evil of Sauron. The blood of Kings flows only in the veins of the heirs of Isildur and Anarion, the sons of Elendil. Were your line to be extinguished, the burden would fall to the Kings of Gondor alone; and should their line fail, there would be little hope indeed for Men. Yet Gondor sits hard on the frontiers of the Enemy's own land, and the peril of its Kings has always been graver than they have known. I would not have recommended to Elendil that he establish his South Kingdom so close to the walls of Mordor, if I had realized that the threat of Sauron would not be soon extinguished, but would endure for generation after generation."

Elrond frowned. "But what is past, is past. And the Kings of Gondor have grown proud and arrogant, spurning the counsel of others save when it flatters them." Gandalf muttered under his breath, but Elrond continued speaking.

"The heirs of Anarion are in peril as grave as yours, but know it not, nor would they believe it. I fear greatly for their fate, trusting to the false security of their mighty walls and high towers. Still, whatever may befall the heirs of Anarion, I have resolved that here at Rivendell, the heirs of Isildur shall be sheltered. Not for Isildur's sake – for to this day I have not forgiven his folly - but rather for the sake of Middle Earth. Here the heirs of Isildur shall be reared in their youth, taught both wisdom and war-craft by our finest lore-masters and warriors; and here shall they spend their old age, imparting their own wisdom to their sons, who shall take up the burden when their fathers pass from this world to the next. Thus shall we guarantee that the line of Kings will continue, and its scions shall be wiser and stronger than ever before."

"I begin to see more clearly," nodded Aranarth.

"But is it clearly enough?" queried Gandalf. "I trust you understand the implications of what we have told you? To begin with, the less that is known about you and your heirs, the better. Indeed, the fewer the number of Men who know of your existence, the better."

"The entire army of Gondor knows of my existence," observed Aranarth.

"That is true," nodded Gandalf. "For their own lifetimes, and those of their sons and even their grandsons. But Men have short memories. The day will come when other Men no longer know who the mysterious Rangers of the North truly are. That might greive you, but it should comfort you; for in secrecy lies the best hope of you and your people. Sauron's agents will find it far more difficult to track you down than they would if you lived in the open, your true identity known to Men, and that will will buy us time. The day _might_ come when one of your heirs must reveal himself openly, in the final battle against Sauron for the fate of Middle Earth; but until then, secrecy and vigilance are paramount. Trust no one outside of Rivendell who is not known to you intimately."

"You should not even use your own name openly," cautioned Elrond. "Not outside the bounds of Rivendell. Choose another name for your journeys, one that does not in any way signify your status as Aranarth son of Arvedui. Your heirs must likewise use false names, when dealing with all but their most closely trusted friends. For a bounty will someday lie on your head and theirs that will have every cutthroat and assassin from Hithaeglir to Umbar scouring the lands for you, every ready with an arrow for your heart and a dagger for your throat."

"I am more than capable of dealing with common cutthroats and the like," replied Aranarth. "The sorceries and wiles of the Witch King himself are more fearful to me. But, while I see the wisdom in your plan, I do think you are too quick to dismiss the prospects for the Kings of Gondor. King Earnil is a learned and a wise man, and his son Earnur, as you well know Gandalf, is the mightiest warrior amongst the Men of this age. Moreover the armies of Gondor are vast, and unsurpassed in warcraft. The Witch King and the Enemy whom he serves will be hard-pressed indeed to bring the line of Anarion to an end. My own peril, even sheltered here at Rivendell, is far greater than theirs."

"Don't be too sure of that," cautioned Gandalf. "The fate of armies can hang by the slenderest of threads, and no army looks grander than on the eve of its defeat. As for King Earnil, I met him some years ago. He is wise and learned by the measure of what passes for wisdom and lore amongst the Men of these times – which is to say he is wise in flummerly and learned in superstition, calculating his actions by the movements of the stars, and the flight of birds, and the drawing of cards from decks, and the reading of tea-leaves in cups, and other such quackery." He sniffed loudly, as if to register his professional disapproval with such perversions of lore concerning the laws of nature.

"And as for Earnur," he continued, "well, he is indeed strong; strong in body and headstrong in mind. I would venture that he is also invincibly ignorant, and utterly reckless. Do not forget that he is still bound to his foolhardy Oath by Eru to slay the Witch King in a contest of arms. That Oath cannot be undone, and it shall hang over his head like a sword for all his days, ever-ready to fall upon him and bring him to his doom."

"I pray you are wrong," said Aranarth, rising from his seat. "Though I will not gainsay your wisdom. In any case, I am honoured and humbled again by your aid to me, and your readiness to provide your counsel. I and my people shall do what we can in the struggle against the Enemy, and you have my word we will never slacken or give up the fight."

"That is all we can ask of any Man," replied Elrond. "Though the burden will not rest most heavily upon your own shoulders. I foresee that it is one of your heirs who shall face the ultimate test in the struggle against the Enemy."

Elrond then smiled warmly. "But those days are yet far off, Aranarth. Meanwhile, you have my word that I shall never forget the ties of blood and history that unite your House and mine. I shall never fail to succor your people, as long as the struggle against the Enemy continues."

* * *

Lady Vana sat on a balcony that overlooked the meadows of Rivendell, as a gentle autumn rain fell in a misty cloud. She sighed quietly, contemplating the events that had led her and her people to dwell in the House of Elrond.

The Men of Arnor had sent for their womenfolk some years before, and had escorted them along the Road from Mithlond to Rivendell, there to dwell amongst the Elven folk of that land. The women had at first been reluctant to undertake such a long journey, but when they arrived at Rivendell, they had at once fallen in love with its beauty and serenity. It was the perfect place to calm their fears, and dull their memories of the horrors they had endured amid the fall of Fornost.

Her husband had made alliance with Elrond and his people, and Rivendell was now to be the last refuge of the Dunedain of the North. Aranarth spent many long months in the library of Rivendell, imbibing all he could of Elven-lore, and many more months in the company of the greatest warriors of Rivendell – the High Elf Glorfindel, and the sons of Elrond, Elrohir and Elladan – honing his own war-craft, and learning to fight in the Elven fashion. Though he had lost his kingdom, he was now a wiser man and a more skilled and cunning fighter than he had been when he dwelt under his own roof at Fornost.

Aranarth had not been utterly despoiled of his patrimony, for he had brought with him in secret the heirlooms of Isildur's House. He had deposited in trust with Elrond the Shards of Narsil, the Star Crown and Sceptre of Arnor, and the Ring of Barahir. His instructions to Elrond, should anything happen to himself, were that his successors as Lord of the Dunedain should take possession of the Shards of Narsil and the Ring of Barahir, and use them as they saw fit. However, Elrond was not to confer the Crown and Sceptre on any Man of Isildur's line until that Man had restored the kingdom of Arnor. With so few of the Dunedain left it might take many centuries before such conditions could be fulfilled, but Elrond had sworn to uphold Aranarth's wishes.

Vana found it discomfiting to contemplate Aranarth's bequest, for his own peril had not lessened with the flight of the Witch King, or the toppling of the accursed tower at Carn Dum. Though she knew little of matters of ancient lore, she had certainly overheard enough to know that Aranarth was being hunted; by what evil forces exactly, he would not say. Yet rather than shunning such peril, he choose to expose himself to it by risking his life in the wilds of Eriador, striving with his Rangers to maintain what order they could in the lands along the Road, and to protect the simple folk of the Shire and the Bree-land.

Vana knew that Aranarth was merely doing his duty; yet, she could not help but wish that he would place such perils and burdens in the hands of others. She was but recently with child, and greatly feared the prospect that her husband would meet an untimely end on one of his forays into the wild, leaving her to raise the next Heir of Isildur without a father. Between the loss of her homeland and all her own kinfolk, and the perils that seemed to loom up before her beloved husband on every front, Vana felt her own burdens lie heavily upon her. Weighed down by her fears she often retreated to the balcony on whch she now sat, to take what comfort she could from the beauty of the earth and sky.

"Why are you saddened?" asked a soft, deep voice behind her. "For it is plain that the veil of sorrow lies heavily upon your heart."

Vana turned about, and gasped in amazement. Before her stood an Elf-maiden, dressed in the flowing dresses and deep blue cloth beloved of the ladies of Rivendell. Yet she had never seen before the lady who now spoke to her, and felt both awed and envious of the beauty of this Elven-maid. She was tall, as tall as Lord Elrond, and her complexion was as his own; long, dark hair, pale, rosy-cheeked skin, and blue eyes laden with ancient wisdom and lore. Yet her beauty was indescribable, beyond compare; like the sheen of the Stars and the Moon, radiant with inner light, the curves of her face and figured carved as if from marble by the greatest sculptor of the ages.

Vana was accounted a great beauty amongst her own people. Yet compared to the immaculate glory of this lady of Rivendell she felt flawed and inadequate, keenly aware that her own mortal beauty was like that of a flower, which blooms but for a brief span of days before withering and fading forever.

"Do not be troubled," smiled the Elf-lady, sitting down beside her. "You are the Lady Vana of the Dunedain, are you not?"

"I am," whispered Vana, her voice faint and small.

"I am Arwen Daughter of Elrond, known to my people as Undomiel, the Evenstar" replied the Elf-maiden. "I am pleased to meet at last the Lady of the Dunedain."

"I am honoured, Lady Arwen" blushed Vana. "Yet, if you'll pardon me, I did not know that Lord Elrond had a daughter. I have lived here for some years know, yet I only ever met or saw his sons."

"My brothers have always made themselves seen and known, with my father's approval," smiled Arwen. "But he seems to think I am like a delicate flower, whose beauty should be shielded from prying eyes lest it be trampled underfoot."

"I hardly think that would be possible," said Vana. "But still, how can it be that I have not met you before?"

"I have not dwelt here for many years," replied Arwen. "Rather I have dwelt amongst the people of my mother Celebrian. She is still there now, in the hall of her parents the Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel amid their hidden land of Laurelindorean; that is Lothlorien as some now call it."

"For many years?" asked Vana. "You hardly look older than twenty summers."

"Time passes not for my people as for yours, as surely you know" replied Arwen. "I was born in the second century of this Third Age of the Sun, and have seen many generations of your people grow and fade amid the passing years." Vana stared amazed.

"Come, my lady," continued Arwen, "as I said, your heart is troubled. Yet it grieves me to see that anyone could fail to find peace and happiness amid the bounds of Rivendell, when this place is one of the few lands of this Middle Earth on which the Shadow does not lie. Pray tell me your sorrows, and let me do what I can to succor you."

"I am grateful for your concern," said Vana. "But there is little you or anyone can do to assuage my sorrows and fears. My homeland is destroyed, and my blood relatives are dead, and my husband is in grave peril, or so it seems. I am with child, yet know not whether I shall even have a husband alive to help raise him to manhood, should the child be a boy. With respect, you are of immortal kind, and I do not see how you could begin to understand such burdens. Surely they are beneath the notice of beings such as you."

"On the contary," replied Arwen. "We Elves have been fated from the eldest days not only to know greater joy than Men, but also greater sorrow. Your burdens are for a time, and then they fade away; but ours do not cease, and lie ever heavier on us with the ever passing years. If you seek comfort for your sadness, there is no one better to turn to than an Elf, for we are long accustomed to enduring our own."

Vana was silent for a time. Then she said, "I had not thought of the matter in such terms. Well then, I am certainly grateful for any counsel that you have for me, my lady."

"I would say only this," replied Arwen. "The past is past, and it cannot be changed. It is in the nature of Elves to dwell in the past, ever more so with the passing of the years, and to look to what once was, but is lost forever. For we are a fading people, and for all our glory as it appears to you our time on this Middle Earth is near its end. We but linger in the twilight of our age. Yet it is not fitting for the race of Men to see the world as we do. It is in the nature of your people to look to the future, to what might be rather than what has been."

"What has been is the source of my sorrow," replied Vana, "and what might be is the source of my fear."

"To surrender to fear is to surrender to the Enemy," insisted Arwen. "Yet beside fear there is also hope. You fear the future because it is unknown to you; but if it is unknown, you cannot think it will lead inexorably to doom. There is always hope for the living, as long as they draw breath."

"What should I hope for, then?" asked Vana.

"For the long life and good deeds of your husband, who is a noble and brave Man by all accounts, and has grown well-learned in lore and well-skilled in warcraft under our tutelage," replied Arwen. "Morever he has left you with child, and that is the greatest hope of all. I foretell that your husband will live for many long years under the Sun, and will not soon leave you alone as you fear. And even if worst came to worst, still you would not be alone; for you have not only your own people as your friends, but ours as well. Beyond any doubt Lord Elrond would raise any heir of your line as his foster-son, should the boy's own father not be alive to do it. Therefore quell your doubts and fears, and contemplate instead your hopes and dreams."

Vana smiled quietly. "Your words are wise," she said. "I would do well to think on them."

"That is all I ask," smiled Arwen. Then her eyebrows lifted, and she pointed her slender arm gracefully towards the meadows. "There goes your husband now, with some of his Rangers," she cried. "Let us bid him farewell from afar."

The ladies stood to their feet, waving to the Rangers as they strode across the meadows, their green cloaks warding of the rain as they made their way to the distant Ford of Bruinen. When they reached the narrow span that crossed the stream of Imladris, Aranarth turned for a moment, gazing at the House of Elrond and the sylvan vale of Rivendell. He caught sight of Vana and Arwen on their balcony, and bowed to them in a graceful gesture. Then he and his Rangers crossed the bridge and disappeared into the forest, to battle the forces of darkness and kindle hope in the hearts of Men.


	8. The Black Land Awakens

**The Black Land Awakens**

In the pine-forested hills of Ithilien, beneath the glowering peaks of the Mountains of Shadow, Erelont and Umarth paused from their chase of a fleet-footed hart to wipe their brows and catch their breath. It was early July, and the high summer was ever a time of searing heat and humidity in the lower vale of Anduin; but this summer waxed hotter than any in living memory.

"Pass that flask, Umarth," gasped Erelont. "I cannot go another step without a draught of water."

"You always were a soft one," grinned Umarth, pushing his lanky brown hair out of his eyes, and taking a swig from the flask himself before passing it to his cousin.

Erelont quelled his thirst, and then passed back the flask to his friend, hitched his quiver over his shoulder, and gripped his bow in his sweaty palms. "Think you this hart will elude us entirely?" he asked. "The beast seems to be able to run faster amid the heat than we can."

"We shall see," shrugged Umarth. "I hate to return to our village with nothing more than a coney for the cooking pot. Mother will be after me with her rolling pin again if I do."

"Indeed, your mother is the terror of all Ithilien," grinned Erelont.

"Mind your tone, boy!" frowned Umarth, half-jokingly.

"Don't call me boy!" replied Erelont. "I'm only two years younger than you, and your're not yet twenty-five. We're both yet boys, or neither of us are."

"Fair enough," nodded Umarth. "Neither, then. But to the point, already it is well past noon. The days are long at this time of year; but, we are far from home, with a long walk across the Emyn Arnen before us, and I would not return want to return in the dark. Let us chase the beast for perhaps another hour; if we still have not slain it, then we shall turn back."

"I won't gainsay that," replied Erelont, "though we should walk along the trail, not run. That will preserve our strength."

"Agreed," grunted Umarth. Without further word, they then followed the hart's trail, weaving across the grassy meadows and along the pine-needled floors of the shady forest glades. They had walked for perhaps half an hour, climbing eastward over the lower slopes of the mountains when they came upon the Harad Road, which ran from Carach Angren in the north to the Crossings of Poros in the south. Then Umarth stopped suddenly, holding up his hand.

"Hello," he said. "What have we here?"

"What are you talking about?" asked Erelont. "I don't see any sign of the hart. The beast has left us in the dust."

"Have your lost the use of your eyes, man?' asked Umarth. "Look at that sack lying by the roadside. It fair gleams with gold!"

Erelond looked, and then he saw it; a sack of black cloth, perhaps a foot across, lying half-open in a shallow ditch on the far side of the road. The top of the sack was partly open, revealing the glitter of heavy gold coins.

"Hello indeed!" cried Erelont. "What will they say in the village when we set out as hunters, but come back as rich Men? Rich as princes!"

"Rich as Kings!" laughed Umarth, as they dashed across the road to their prize. He was reaching down to the sack, when Erelont suddenly frowned and grabbed his arm.

"Hold on a minute," he said. "Folks don't just leave gold lying in the ditch, and this Harad Road is little used nowadays. You can see the weeds growing up between the flagstones. Why would someone leave such a treasure just lying around here, waiting for passersby?"

"Who knows and who cares?" grunted Umarth. "And don't worry – I saw it first, but we'll split it half and half. We are kinfolk, after all."

Umarth grabbed the sack, straining under the weight as he pulled it out of the ditch and onto the road. "We'll have to split up the load anyway," he puffed. "I can't carry all this weight back to the village single-handed. Open up your knapsack, and I'll pour half of it in there."

Erelont did as he was told, while Umarth examined the coins. Each was heavy and ruddy – true gold beyond any doubt – but he had never seen the like before. Once, as a youth, a passing nobleman had donated a gold sovereign to their village, for the relief of its poor, and Umarth had been fortunate enough to see it with his own eyes. Like the copper and silver coins he was used to, it had borne the head of the reigning King on the one side, and an image of the White Tree of Gondor on the other. But the coins that passed between his fingers now were quite odd indeed. One the one side, they bore a grinning skull; and on the other, a strange design that looked like a cat's eye.

"Funny old things," grunted Umarth. "Wonder who minted 'em. You ever seen the like?"

"No, and I don't know if I care to again," shuddered Umarth. "I don't know if that skull or the eye are worse. They both look like they're watching me."

"Don't be such a baby," chided Umarth. "Now hold your bag open." Erelont did so, as Umarth carefully upended the sack of coins, tipping out half its contents. As he did so, a flurry of black dust rose up from the coins, clouding the air and nearly choking both the Men. They dropped their sacks, and spent some moments coughing before they stood to their feet again.

"What was that stuff?" gasped Erelont. "It's left a bitter taste in my mouth."

"Just mold, surely," spat Umarth. He took another swig from their flask of water, passing it to Erelont, who likewise washed out his mouth. "Now let's load up these coins and get out of here," he grinned. "I'm keen to get home and start counting my new forture." They scooped up the coins into their knapsacks, tossing the empty black sack in which they had found the coins back in the ditch, and then turned and began their long march over the rolling hills and through the forest glades of the Emyn Arnen to their village of Calanaud.

The hours passed by, and yet the setting of the Sun in the West and the lengthening shadows of evening hardly brought any relief to the air, which was utterly still, and clung to them like a warm, sticky blanket. Umarth stumbled a few times, complaining of a dizzy spell which he blamed on the dreadful heat. Erelont helped him to his feet each time, trying to suppress the racking cough that had begun to torment his lungs.

By nightfall, they had reached the outskirts of Calanaud, and arrived at the doorstep of Umarths' house, which was the nearer of the two. Both Men were coughing now, and swayed unsteadily on their feet as they knocked on the door.

"Where have you been?" cried the elderly matron who opened the door, wiping her hands on her apron as she glared at them. "Haven't I told you to arrive home before nightfall, Umarth? I was worried sick about you!"

"Hello mother," gasped Umarth, wobbling slightly. Then he gasped, and fell to the ground, where he sprawled unconscious.

"Umarth!" she cried, dropping to her knees. "What's wrong with you, son?" She placed her hand across his forehead, and then cried aloud. "He's burning up!" she wailed. "I've never felt such a fever before. What have you too lads been up to?"

Erelont was about to answer, but instead was choked by series of wracking coughs. He dropped to his knees, coughing up spittle and blood as his face turned pale.

"Both of you are desperately ill!" she gasped. She waited for Erelont's spasm to subside, before pulling him to his feet.

"Quick!" she said. "Help me pull Umarth inside, before you start coughing again. Then you sit down right next to him. I'm sending for the barber; he's the only man in these parts that knows a bit about blood-letting."

She was gone for some minutes, and then returned with the barber, a heavy slab of a man. He frowned deeply when he saw the boys, and then stayed up all night, bleeding them, and forcing them to swallow foul-tasting herbal confections. But Umarth did not wake up, falling ever deeper into sleep, while Erelont began to cough uncontrollably, gasping for air, too weak to sit up, and yet unable to breathe when he lay down.

At dawn, the barber said gravely, "I can't help these lads. I'll need to go to the market town and bring back a real doctor." He coughed briefly, and strode out the door.

* * *

The Black Plague of the two-thousandth year of the Third Age of the Sun proved one of the worst calamities in the history of Gondor. Having begun in the backwoods of Ithilien, the plague swept like wildfire into the suburbs of Osgiliath, and from there west across the Anduin and into the thickly settled lands beyond. By early August the whole of Gondor was smitten by the plague, which proved deadly to all who contracted it, slaying young and old, men and women with abandon. The deadly illness confounded all efforts of even the most learned doctors to combat its fatal course.

Fear over the plague soon turned to panic, and then outright rioting and chaos. At first the army was sent out to quell the disturbances, and ensure the supply of food and medicine to the sick. But any soldiers who came into contact with the plague victims or their families were soon sick themselves, and entire regiments fell under the scythe of the disease.

Then King Earnil ordered all the fortresses of Gondor to shut and seal their doors, and leave those outside the walls to fend for themselves until the plague abated. Some fortresses had already been struck by the plague within their walls, and like the cities they were soon full only of the dead, their reek fouling the air like a charnel house; but Minas Anor, the heavily-guarded and well-provisioned summer capital of the Kings of Gondor, had mercifully escaped the plague before it could spread within. Alone in Gondor, behind its thick walls and iron gates, its people survived the disaster without loss.

All through the summer the plague raged, decimating the population, and driving the survivors from the pestiliential cities and farmlands into the wilds of the hills and mountains, scavenging in the forests and moorlands as best they could now that the delivery of grain had dwindeled to nothing. Others who dwelt by the shore took to sea, living off the catch of the day, and risking trips to the shore only to replace their dwindling supply of fresh water.

It was a hard life indeed, and many a fat townsman and a wealthy merchant who was used to heavily-laden tables and sumptuous banquests was reduced to little more than a trembling wreck before the summer was out. Famine began to slay the people where the plague had not reached, until it seemed that the torments of that evil year would have no limit. Not until the rains of autumn did the plague begin to abate, and not until the brief chill of winter froze the land was it squelched entirely. By then food was scarce indeed, and the famine raged across the land as fiercely as the plague had before.

When the spring of the following year finally arrived, King Earnil ordered parties of brave scouts to venture beyond the walls of Minas Anor, and return with their reports. They did return, after some weeks – proving that they had escaped infection by the plague, which slew Men within the space of six or seven days at the most. But though he plague had abated, their report was grim indeed; not only were the cities and fortresses abandoned and empty, but fully half of Gondor's civilians and its soldiers lay dead. What Gondor's enemies could not accomplish in over two-thousand years, the Black Plague and its resulting famine had accomplished in the space of a few seasons.

Prince Earnur, who had weathered the storm beside his father in the Citadel of Minas Anor, then led parties of Men forth from the walls. He first brought the remnants of the army back under his command, and then lured the civilians out from the forests and mountains to the croplands, so that they could till the soil and replenish Gondor's larders. They were saved from further famine only by fish from the sea, and by such grain as remained in the warehouses of the cities, and which had been abandoned along with the cities when people had fled the plague.

There soon proved even fewer survivors east than west of Anduin, and since the plague had begun in Ithilien, and Earnur feared that it might emerge there again, he resettled the remaining survivors of that land west of the Anduin. Ithilien, like Osgiliath, then lay deserted, save for a small force of soldiers that he deployed to Minas Ithil so that Gondor's presence east of Anduin would not be surrendered entirely.

Earnur had never had a head for book learning and record-keeping, but to his own surprise he soon proved as able a civil administrator as he was a military commander. It was necessary because his father rarely departed from his study, which required Earnur to assume the burdens of state on his own broad shoulders. While leaving the details to his scribes and officials, the Prince set about organizing the people into settled camps, and putting the able-bodied amongst them to work at the many tasks that faced them, from ploughing and sowing the fields to burning the withered bodies of the dead. Entire towns and villages were burned to the ground, where the dead lay thick enough, and many lands that had once been thickly settled now lay empty, weeds and saplings springing up in their fields as beasts and birds moved into lands that Men had abandoned. The surviving towns and cities were to be left empty until the following year, when enough grain would be stored in the warehouses to support the return of artisans and merchants to them.

Thus matters stood by the autumn of the year, when Earnur approached his father in the recesses of his study, a cool, marble-walled chamber that lay within the Citadel of Minas Anor, on the seventh and highest tier of that fortress. He found King Earnil leaning over a broad desk of onxy and chalcedony, holding a pair of calipers over a star-chart with one hand, and writing notes and calculations on a scroll of parchment with the other.

Earnur coughed loudly, and his father glanced up from his work. "Well?" asked the King. "What have you to report?"

"I have restored order to the land," replied Earnur, "as much as it has been possible to do so. The people will not starve this winter as they did in the last one. But I am gravely concerned."

"About what?" asked the King, frowning as he placed down his quill and pointed a long finger at a column on his chart.

"The defense of our land, father," replied Earnur, biting his lip to hide his displeasure. He had never understood his father's reading of the stars, finding the chart-scanning and calculations associated with such work to be skull-crackingly difficult and mind-numbingly boring; but in general he had no regard for such lore, preferring to rely on his own strength and his wits to get things done. His father, he knew, viewed matters differently, and indeed had spent ever more time at his charts and auguries since the plague of the previous year; he would be sorely angered were Earnur to express his opinions on the subject.

"What is the problem with our defenses?" asked Earnil, with a distracted air.

"Surely that's obvious!" exclaimed Earnur. "Half our army lies dead! Half our ships are unmanned, and we have but one garrison east of Anduin, at Minas Ithil. Carach Angren has been abandoned entirely, though I have still ordered patrols to visit it once a month. We are then wide open to invasion; from the East; the South; and the Sea."

"If half our army lies dead," replied Earnil dismissively, "the other half are still alive. Seventy-thousand Men, if I'm not mistaken. And we can always call on our auxiliaries amongst the Northmen of Rhovanion if we must."

"The Haradrim could muster half again as many warriors, if only they set aside their blood feuds and united under a single leader," shot back Earnur.

"But they haven't," said Earnil, "and they won't." He looked up, his eyes narrowing. "Now as you can see, Earnur, I am quite busy. What is it you want of me?"

"I am gravely concerned about the failure of our watch on Mordor," frowned Earnur. "For the best part of a year we kept no watch on that land at all, between the plague and famine, and even now our small garrison at Minas Ithil is the only permanent presence we have on its border. Who knows what foul creatures might have crept within the frontiers of the Black Land while our glance was turned elsewhere?"

"What sort of creatures could live in such a ghastly place?" asked Earnil, turning back to his chart, and adjusting his calipers. "Orcs, perhaps, but they are animals, of no account in small numbers."

"What of the Witch King?" asked Earnur darkly. "The Black Land would be a perfect

place for that foul sorcerer to hide, and stir up trouble against us."

Earnil glared at his son, and stood up from his desk. "The Witch King," he replied, with a scowl on his grey-bearded face. "I am tired of hearing of that musty wight, Earnur. You defeated him over twenty-five years ago, and yet again and again you rant on about him. I don't want to hear any more about your obsession with the Witch King! Now I'll ask again, what do you want of me?"

"Since order has been restored in the settled lands west of Anduin," replied Earnur – who suppressed a desire to smash his father's desk to pieces with a blow from his mighty fists - "we must not only redouble the vigilience of our navy along the shouthern shore, but also redeploy more troops to our eastern marches without delay. I seek permission to quadrudple our garrision at Minas Ithil to full-strength, from five-hundred to two-thousand Men. Futher, I seek permission to re-garrision Cirith Ungol and Carach Angren. Also we should send patrols into the waste of Gorgoroth, to scour the land, and ensure that no evil creatures have crept within. And we should have regular patrols from Emyn Muil to the Crossings of Poros, to keep an eye out for any trouble from the Easterlings and Southrons. A redeployment of at least ten-thousand Men east of Anduin, in sum."

"Impossible," replied Earnil, with a wave of his hand. "The stars forbid it."

"The stars forbid it?" asked Earnur, incredulous.

"Of course,"replied the King, stabbing a finger down on his star chart. "Surely that's obvious – though perhaps not to you, for you've always been a lackwit when it comes to astrological lore. Even so, if you gaze upon this chart, you see that Alcarinque is ascendant in the House of Namo, while Earendil has descended beneath the heliacal plane. Clearly, while there is some danger to the East, there is far greater danger to the West. Therefore our forces must remain west of Anduin. I would grudge even our garrion at Minas Ithil, but for the fact that it is small, and keeping a trace of our presence east of Anduin is importance for the people's morale."

"What on earth has any of this talk about who is ascending and descending where to do with anything?" exclaimed Earnur.

"The stars have spoken!" replied the King coolly. "As have I. Now begone, and leave me to my work. How you will chart Gondor's course when you assume the throne, given that you have no knowledge of star-lore and the auguries, I haven't the faintest idea," he muttered, bending down again over this desk.

Struggling to contain his temper, Earnur bowed perfunctorily, and then strode out of the room. In the corridor outside, he punched a massive fist into the wall, leaving a chip and several cracks in its smooth, cool marble.

* * *

"By the Valar, it's a dark night!" whispered Glirhuin, as he leaned over the battlements of Minas Ithil.

"Aye, the stars are veiled indeed," replied Drengist, shivering and pulling his cloak tighter about his armour. "Only the torches, and the ghost-light within the walls of this haunted place, allow us to see anything."

"Not ghost-light, but moonlight captured in the walls," corrected Glirhuin somewhat pedantically, as he rested his weight on his spear. "Or so I've heard."

"Whatever," scowled Drengist. "The sight of this accursed pile alone is enough to chill the blood. Everyone knows that Minas Ithil is haunted, and the pass of Cirith Ungol too. Fine luck we have, surviving plague and famine, only to receive the worse posting in all of Gondor!"

"It's not the worst," replied Glirhuin. "That would be Carach Angren. Or Cirith Ungol, perhaps."

"Ah, that hadn't occurred to me," shuddered Drengist again. "I wouldn't even want to go on patrol to those places!"

They both fell silent for a time, staring beyond the gently glowing walls of the fortress into the ebon night of the Ithil Vale before them. It is the small hours of a cold morning in early spring, and the two guards still had some hours left before their watch on this portion of the battlements came to an end and they could retreat to the Garrision Room in the Tower; the only place where the guards felt safe from the phantoms rumoured to haunt the lonely fortress.

"Hey, Glirhuin," whispered Drengist. "You had any dreams lately?"

"Dreams?" asked Glirhuin.

"Well, you know," said Drengist, "nightmares more like."

"Nah, I slept like a log last night, and the night before," replied Glirhuin. "And you?"

"I had an awful dream before waking up for guard duty," replied Drengist. "I saw hideous faces, thousands of 'em, all passing through the dark."

"How could you see 'em if it was dark?" quipped Glirhuin, pleased to have scored another point against his counterpart.

"What does that matter?" scowled Drengist. "I saw 'em just the same. And behind them was something, something darker than dark…" His voice trailed off into muttering and whispered prayers.

"You don't drink enough," replied Glirhuin. "That's your trouble. I down two flagons of ale a night before turning in, and I sleep like a baby. In fact, I've seen no proof this place is haunted at all. Fairy tales, that's all that is."

"Brave words, very brave," replied Drengist. "Let's see you spend a night off in one of the high Tower rooms by yourself then, rather than in the Garrison Room."

"Well, that would be a long climb…" replied Glirhuin, scuffing his iron-shod feet against the stonework of the battlements.

"I knew it!" smiled Drengist triumphantly. "It's one thing to talk brave, quite another to put your silver where your mouth is, as they say."

Glirhuin frowned gloomily, and they fell into silence again for a time. Then he frowned even more deeply, and said, "Hey, Drengist?"

"What is it?"

"You hear something?" continued Glirhuin.

"Hear what exactly?" replied Drengist.

"I don't know," said Glirhuin. "Sounds like thunder, to the east. A low rumbling, but far off like."

"That's your imagination," insisted Drengist. "Thunderstorms don't come from the East in these parts, anyhow."

"So now you're an expert on the weather?" spat Glirhuin. "Well, keep your ears peeled, just the same." The fell silent for perhaps a quarter of an hour, when Glirhuin spoke again.

"Now don't tell me you can't hear that!" said Glirhuin. "Listen!"

Drengist did listen, and then he placed a hand on the wall of the battlements, clenching the hard stone tightly in his grip.

"By the Valar!" cried Drengist. "I do hear it. From the east, and roundabout. A real rumbling and thundering it is, but from the ground, not the sky."

"Blast this dark!" cursed Glirhuin. "I can't see even half an arrowshot beyond the walls. Anything could be down there."

They listened in increasing alarm, as the rumbling grew louder, and drew closer to the fortress. Now other watchmen on the battlements were stirring, exclaming in alarm as they heard the ominous noise.

"Hey Glirhuin," said Drengist. "You were present at the Battle of the Poros, right? When we slew all them Haradrim of the Desert Fox tribe. Well doesn't that damned noise sound to you like an army on the march? Like thousands of…"

He never finished the sentence, for suddenly a black-feathered arrow was lodged in his throat!

"Drengist!" cried Glirhuin, dropping behind the battlements as a shower of arrows soared over the walls, clattering on the stones of the courtyard below. Drengist was quite dead, but the cries of other slain guardsmen echoed across the courtyard, as the survivors on the watch rang the alarm bells, and a murmur of activity stirred from the garrison room at the base of the Tower keep.

Whispering a prayer for his friend, Glirhuin pulled an arrow from his quiver, ready to fire it through the arrowholes of the battlements at the unseen foes beneath – however futile such a gesture might appear in the dark. But before he could fire, he dropped his bow and arrow and clamped his hands over his ears, screaming in terror as his blood turned to icewater.

For from the darkness beyond the walls issued a low, eerie, blood-curdling cry, that soon rose to a deafening, ear-shattering screech. The evil cry first echoed from the stones of Minas Ithil, but then was taken up by them, until it seemed that the entire fortress was alive and screaming, venting its rage and fury against the Gondor-men who dared to dwell within!

Crawling on his hands and knees, Glirhuin made his way off the battlements and down to the courtyard, where he found the surviving members of the garrison, rushing toward the Outer Gate of the fortress. Many of them fell under a second volley of arrows that soared over the walls, all of them stopped up their ears at the inhuman wail issuing from very stone of Minas Ithil that threatened to shatter their eardrums, and freeze their blood to ice.

"This accursed place is alive!" cried one. "It is possessed by demons!" cried another. "Flee for your lives!" They all surged under the high, narrow archway in the walls towards the Outer Gate, heedless of the unseen foes outside as they pulled down the lever that swung open its heavy iron doors. In their madness they had no thought but to flee the fortress, which had to them become a place of terror and death.

The gates opened fully with a heavy groan, and the Gondor-men rushed out, running for their lives – and straight into another volley of black-feathered arrows, fired at them from point-blank range. Then there was a charge towards the fortress, as thousands upon thousands of Orcs, iron-clad and slavering with blood-lust, fell upon and cut down the last survivors of the garrison, surging through the open gates and across the courtyard, filing into the Tower keep and occupying the outer walls. Within half an hour, it was over; Minas Ithil had fallen, and not a Man of Gondor remained alive to tell the tale. The hideous screeching from the walls fell silent, and only the vile bleats and scufflings of the Orcs could be heard.

As the Orcs shambled across the courtyard, snorting and yammering, jostling and scuttling, their hideous faces were suddenly marred even further by a nameless fear. They gibbered and whined as they rushed away from the Outer Gate, leaving a clear path from there and clear across the courtyard to the Tower.

A solitary figure rode up to the Outer Gate, and paused on its threshold. It was mounted on a gaunt black steed, and was dressed all in black robes, draped over armour of sable-tinted steel. Under its cowl there was no face, but only an ebon blackness, darker even than that outside the fortress walls.

"Minas Morgul," intoned the figure in a hollow, sepulchral voice. "After two-thousand years, once again you are mine. This time my dominion over you shall endure forver, even unto the breaking of the world." Then he rode under the archway and into the courtyard, and the iron gates of Minas Morgul swung shut behind him with a heavy clang.

* * *

"Fire another volley, by the Valar!" cried Earnur. "We must hold them off until the Western Bridge over Anduin is demolished entirely!" Swearing loudly as he dodged yet another black feathered Orc arrow, Earnur turned back toward the barricade that had been swiftly thrown up across the bridge, and which alone prevented the vast horde of Mordor Orcs from occupying the Isle of the Royal Palace on which he stood, and surging over to the western shore of Osgiliath.

Earnur had long feared that evil creatures might have entered Mordor when Gondor's watch failed; but, where so many Orcs had come from he had not the sightest idea. They surely could not have dwelt there for long, but rather must have bred in far distant places, waiting for the day when Gondor's vigilance would fail, and they could once again occupy the Black Land.

As for who was responsible for leading the Orcs – of that, Earnur had no doubt at all. At Fornost the Witch King had boasted that he had only begun to unleash his vengeance against the Men of the West. And the Mordor Orcs bore black banners like those of Angmar, only with the grinning skull set in a pale Moon as a corpse face – an obvious mockery of the capture of Minas Ithil, the Tower of the Rising Moon.

Just that morning his scouts in Ithilien had fled back to Osgiliath, reporting that Minas Ithil had fallen, and that a vast host of Orcs – thousands upon thousands – was heading straight for the Bridge across the Anduin. Gondor's army was scattered far and wide, maintaining order and rebuilding the land, and the best Earnur could do with so little warning was to dispatch the garrison of Minas Anor to Osgiliath, to hold the Bridge until it could be demolished. That would buy time for Gondor to redeploy its armies in a broad front along the western shore of the Anduin, and prevent an Orcish invasion of the westlands.

"Your Highness," shouted a general, running up to Earnur. "The last keystones of the Bridge between this island and the western shore have been removed. It is ready to fall on your command."

"Then we must order soldiers to fire another volley of arrows at the Orcs, and abandon this isle to the enemy," replied Earnur. "Though it galls me to think of Orcs overrunning the Royal Palace of Osgiliath – but we had not time to destroy the bridge to the eastern shore, before the Orcs were already swarming over it. We shall have to mount a counterattack, and destroy the Eastern Bridge at a later time. At least destroying the Western Bridge will halt the Black Tide of Mordor – for now."

"Your Highness," frowned the general. "What of the Palantir, the seeing stone in the Palace? Surely we cannot leave it to the enemy?"

"By the Valar!" swore Earnur. "I must be losing my wits, for I had forgotten it completely. Those scum have already captured the Ithil Stone, no doubt, to our grave misfortune. Very well – I will go to the Palace, and retrieve the Osgiliath Stone myself. Be ready to pull the Bridge – and if the enemy press heavily upon you, or break through the barricades, do not hesitate to pull it before I have crossed. I can swim back myself if I must, provided your archers provide cover with their arrows."

"It shall be as you command, Your Highness," vowed the general, saluting crisply before dashing to the barricades.

Earnur turned away from him, and dashed across the courtyard and up the steps of the Palace. Peals of smoke were pouring out of its windows, for there was no time to remove all of its documents, and Earnur had ordered them to be burned rather than fall into the hands of the enemy. He dashed into through the open silver doors, and down the long marble-pillared corridor that led to the throne room. He heard a great roar and a rumbling echo down the corridor as he did so, and realized that the army must have pulled the Bridge even sooner than he had expected. That meant that he was now on the wrong side of the Anduin, with thousands of Orcs for company.

Smiling grimly at the thought, he continued his dash across the sombre throne room, its statues of Isildur and Anarion staring mournfully at him, and ran through a doorway that sat behind the throne and led to the private chambers of the King. He turned down several corridors, keenly aware of the growing clamour echoing from behind him – clearly, the Orcs had already entered the Palace, perhaps under orders to retrieve the very seeing stone he was now trying to rescue.

Earnur reached his father's private apartments, which were guarded by a solid oaken door. He lacked a key, but without any thought ran at them full force, smashing into them with his massive shoulders. They gave a terrible groan, and were thrust inward off their hinges – enough that he could force his way through, and into the chambers beyond. They were bare of documents or other valuables, for King Earnil always transported such chattels to Minas Anor when he used that fortress as his summer capital, and he had not left Minas Anor since the plague of nearly two years before. But in a corner of one gilded, marble-walled chamber, on a pedestal, sat as always the Palantir of Osgiliath. It was smooth and round, yet its dark interior was animated by shifting smokes, as if it were a living thing.

Earnur picked up the Palantir in his free left hand, grunting at its surprising weight. He dashed out of the room to an antechamber illuminated by a broad, open window, and without hesitation jumped through it to the flower garden below – and straight into a score of very surprised Orcs.

The Orcs had not even time to screech or hiss before Earnur drew his sword was upon them, hewing and slashing at them with his mighty blade. Some of the Orcs cried for help from their comrades, but to no avail – within less than a minute all lay dead at Earnur's feet, in growing pools of their own black ichor. Earnur did not even bother to clean his sword, but ran across the gardens, trampling the delicate spring flowers as he dashed straight toward the shore of Anduin. More roving parties of Orcs had caught sight of him, and he cursed loudly as a volley of Orc-arrows whistled past him, several glancing off his steel armour with metallic clangs.

Earnur ignored these Orc-archers, and with a great leap sailed right off the stone-walled embankment by the shore and straight into the cold, swift-flowing river. He gasped in shock at the chill water, and then dropped his sword into the current, using his legs and his right hand to propel himself forward, while holding onto the Palantir in his left hand.

Several Orc-arrows plunged into the water a handsbreath from his head, and he picked up his pace, cursing at the negligence of his own archers on the farther shore, whom he had instructed the general were to provide him with cover. But then, as if on cue, volley after volley of arrows began to soar eastward across the Anduin from the western shore, giving him the cover he needed to make it to safety.

Earnur was so pleased at the timely aid of his archers that for an instant he neglected his grip on the heavy, slippery Palantir – and in just that instant, it slipped out of his hand, plummeting straight down into the shadowy depths of the river!

Earnur swore loudly by gods and devils, but kept on swimming. He knew how futile it would be to search for the precious stone, especially when he was weighed down in heavy armour. He would have to mount a search for it, dredging the river once the eastern shore was again under Gondor's control – but at least he had prevented the Osgiliath Stone from following the Ithil Stone into the hands of the Witch King.

After many long minutes, Earnur finally found himself by the steep, slippery embankment of the western shore. He called for aid, and soon a rope was thrown down to him, which he used to rappel up the embankment and onto a broad avenue that had once been a busy street near the Great Market. He followed the archers behind an empty mansion, so that they would be safe from another volley of Orc-arrows. They were overjoyed to see that their beloved prince was still alive, but Earnur paid them little heed. He looked first to the site of the Western Bridge, which had fallen into the river when the final keystones were pulled, separating the Mordor Orcs from the western shore by a good quarter-mile span of deep, cold water. Then he stared ruefully into the waters of the river itself, wherein lay one of the foremost heirlooms of Gondor. His father, he knew would not be pleased at the loss of the Osgiliath Stone.

* * *

Earnur spent the night encamped in an empty hall of Osgiliath, organizing the redeployment of Gondor's army to the western shore. His Men still exchanged volleys of arrows with the Orcs who held the eastern shore and the Palace isle, but the Orcs made no attempt to cross the river – clearly, they had not come equipped for a marine assault on the western shore, should the Bridge be thrown down before them. Then he received a letter from a messenger signed by the King, ordering him to place the redployment of troops and the fortification of West Osgiliath in the hands of his generals and officers, while he himself returned at once to the Citadel at Minas Anor.

Earnur complied forthwith, and by the fifth hour past dawn he stood in the Throne Room of Minas Anor – he realized he would have to stop thinking of it as the 'Summer' Throne Room, now the true capital at Osgiliath had fallen into the hands of the enemy. There, amid its black onyx pillars and marble walls, he found the King seated on his throne of carven white chalcedony. To Earnur's surprise he also saw Gandalf the Grey – known in Gondor as Mithrandir – standing before him.

"You received my summons," nodded King Earnil, as Earnur bowed before him. "Good. You can see that Mithrandir has at last joined us."

"I arrived just this morning, only to find that things have gone from bad to worse," explained Gandalf. "I have already apologized to your father the King for not arriving to succor you when your need was greatest – but I have spent the past few years by Lake Esgaroth and the mountain Erebor, helping the refugees from Khazad-Dum become established at their new home there."

Earnur nodded briefly. He knew that Khazad-Dum, the ancient capital of the Dwarves in the heart of the Misty Mountains, had fallen to some dark terror that dwelt deep within its deepest caverns. The Dwarven halls sat empty now, and were known to Men as the Mines of Moria; the Black Pit.

"In any case," continued Gandalf, "word travels slowly in Middle Earth, and it was not until the Yuletide of last year that I first heard of the disaster that had befallen Gondor. I arrived here as quickly as I could, though it was a journey of many months – indeed, it's the second of April today, if I'm not mistaken."

"It is," nodded Earnur. "But our direst peril is yet before us, now that Ithilien and East Osgiliath have fallen to the Orcs. We only just pulled the Western Bridge in time, and by ill fate I lost the Palantir of Osgiliath in the river…"

A warning glare from the King silenced Earnur, but too late – Gandalf's bushy eyebrows had already shot up.

"So, that's three Palantiri lost now," muttered the Grey Wizard, "Annuminas, Amon Sul, and Osgiliath. And one captured, for the Ithil Stone must lie now in the hands of the Enemy. That is a grievous loss indeed."

Gandalf then stared up at the King and his son, and asked, "Why was Minas Ithil left so lightly guarded, when it contained a treasure of such value?"

Earnur held his tongue, while Gandalf's blue eyes flicked briefly between him and King Earnil, who scowled as his aged hands fidgeted with the creases of his grey robes. Then Gandalf turned to Earnur and winked conspiratorially, before changing the subject to one of even greater concern.

"Before you arrived, Prince Earnur" said the Grey Wizard, "I was just about to ask your father if you have heard any news from Saruman the White – Curunir, as he is known in these parts. He has long had dealings with the Gondor-men, and I had hoped that at the least he would offer what aid and counsel he could should Gondor find itself threatened by the Witch King and his minions. Yet I have searched far and wide and have heard no word of him, nor it seems has he offered Gondor any aid at all amid plague, famine and war."

"None one knows anything of Curunir's whereabouts," replied Earnur.

"Curunir has not been seen in Gondor for twenty-eight years," observed the King somberly. "He rode into the East to conducting some sort of research – into what topics, he would not say. No one has heard of him since."

"Perhaps he is dead," frowned Earnur. "He could have fallen to the wiles of the Witch King, or those of the Necromancer of Dol Guldur in Mirkwood, of whom we have heard rumor. Or perhaps he has finished the span of even his long years, and has gone on to his reward; he has surely lived uncommonly long by the measure of Men."

"Most unlikely on all counts," replied Gandalf briskly. "Saruman is more than capable of taking care of himself, even against such a foe as the Witch King. Though admittedly, neither I nor anyone else knows enough about the Necromancer to be certain of the abilities of that dark sorcerer."

Gandalf's eyes narrowed contemplatively. "Perhaps I ought to hazard a visit to _him_ myself, when I am satisfied that Gondor is in order. Long have I watched him from afar, without discerning his identity; yet he is he clearly is a servant of evil, and may well have played a role in Gondor's troubles. It could be the Orcs that assailed you from Mordor were in fact bred in Dol Guldur, and hid under the shadowy eaves of Mirkwood, until the Necromancer made alliance with the Witch King and dispatched his Orcs to the Black Land."

Gandalf then looked up, and concluded his thoughts on Saruman's fate. "As to Saruman's span of years," he continued, "suffice to say he is of a vigorous line, and has many years indeed ahead of him. Yes, you may be certain he is alive and well."

"Speaking of the Black Land," interjected the King, "I am astonished as well as dismayed at what has transpired in recent days. It was not in the stars, surely."

"You would be well advised to trust less to the stars, and more to you own wits, O King," chided Gandalf. The King frowned darkly at him, but Gandalf was not in the least intimidated.

"If only I had arrived here sooner, I would have counseled you to keep the strongest possible guard on your eastern marches," continued the Grey Wizard. "But what's done cannot be undone. At any rate, I wish I knew what Saruman was up to – though I have my suspicions. Sometimes I wonder if the welfare of Gondor is truly amongst his highest priorities."

"Curunir the White has always been a loyal ally of Gondor," replied the King sternly. "I am surprised you would gainsay him behind his back. Is he not your master?"

"Most certainly not!" exclaimed Gandalf. "He is the leader of my Order, but I am not his servant. You might think of him as first amongst equals, as far as we Wizards are concerned. I'm just advising you to keep your wits about you when he speaks to you, and not to follow the promptings of his Voice if they run against the grain of your heart. Only a Man of the strongest possible will can hope to deal on an even footing with the White Wizard."

"Then let us have your Counsel, Mithrandir," said Earnur, as ever getting to the point. "What are we to do, now that Ithilien has fallen? How are to we reclaim it for Gondor?"

"What you should do is what you've been doing this day," replied Gandalf. "Keep a strong watch and guard along the Anduin, for it is now the front line in a land at war. As for reclaiming Ithilien – you should not be too ambitious, for by all accounts the Orcs who serve the Enemy are many, and your army has been gravely weakened. Are not entire provinces of Gondor virtually depopulated in the wake of the plague?"

"Yes," replied Earnur. "Andrast is entirely abandoned, Anfalas and Calenardhon virtually empty. And of course we have now lost both North and South Ithilien. Anorien, Lossarnach, Lebennin, Lamedon and Belfalas are all that are left of our settled lands now, and even in those lands many towns and villages lie empty, and their fields are fallow."

"Then your ability to gain new recruits and make up for losses in battle has been gravely hindered," observed Gandalf. "If you want my advice, you will abandon any pretense of an offensive war for the time being. Gondor has passed the peak of its power and glory, and I foresee it will be on the defensive for many years to come. You must adjust your strategies and tactics accordingly."

"I care not for your denigration of Gondor, Mithrandir" frowned King Earnil. "The House of Anarion yet rules the jewel of all kingdoms. We have suffered setbacks, yes, terrible blows even. But we shall recover, and become stronger than ever."

"May it be so," nodded Gandalf. "And I am glad to see you have not lost hope, Your Majesty, despite the dark events of recent years. But I was not denigrating Gondor, merely counseling prudence. A Man who has been dealt a weak hand cannot play from a position of strength. I am cautioning you to consolidate your position, and not to squander such advantages as you still possess in reckless, foolhardy ventures." He turned and stared at Earnur meaningfully, and the Prince soon turned his gaze away.

"On another mater," said Earnur, seeking to change the subject, "what of the refugees from Osgiliath? Those from that city who survivied the plague and famine, and who have dwelt this past year and more in encampments on the Pelennor Fields. We were planning to resettle them in Osgiliath, but it is now the front line in a land at war, as you say. It can serve as military camp for our soldiers, perhaps, but we cannot permit civilians to live there any longer."

"Why not settle them here, at Minas Anor?" asked Gandalf.

"Minas Anor is a fortress, not a city," replied Earnur.

"True, the mightiest fortress in the world," replied Gandalf. "But there is no reason it can't be both. Minas Anor is now the capital of Gondor, _de facto_ if not _de jure_. And a capital requires officials, and servants, and artisans, and would benefit from the presence of merchants and scholars and the like. So resettle them within the adamantine walls of this fortress. Most of the land between the walls is simply grassy meadows anyway – there is plenty of space in which to build solid houses of stone, and accommodate all the refugees of Osgiliath with room to spare."

"On that note, at least, I agree with you," nodded the King. "I took the auguries this morning, and they looked favourably upon this city and its prospects. Moreover I shall decree a change to this city's name. It shall no longer be Minas Anor, the Tower of the Setting Sun; for I name it Minas Tirith, the Tower of Guard. This place shall become the bastion of Gondor, until we regain the strength to destroy our enemies and reclaim the whole of the fair city of Osgiliath as our own. I fear I might not see that happy day in my lifetime, for I am old even by the measure of the Numenoreans. But I expect that you shall lead Gondor to its ultimate victory, my boy."

"I expect so as well, father," replied Earnur firmly.

Gandalf frowned, for in their talk of reclaiming Ithilien and East Osgiliath it seemed to him that they had not taken to heart his advice to be prudent and defensive, rather than rash and aggressive. But before he could interject, a sable-tunic'd messenger entered the Throne Room, bearing in his mail-gloved hand a long, black-feathered Orc-arrow, which pierced a scroll of parchment bound together by a black ribbon, and sealed in black wax with the image of a grinning skull.

"Where did you get that?" exclaimed Gandalf, dashing toward the messenger.

"It was fired across the river at Osgiliath, my lord," replied the man. "And lodged in the ground on the hither shore. The writing on the back of this scroll indicates that it is a message from the Lord of Minas Morgul – that means Minas Ithil, I reckon? – for the Crown Prince of Gondor."

"Let me have that!" cried Earnur, striding toward the messenger. But Gandalf thrust out a hand and held Earnur back, displaying a strength that struck the Prince as incredible for a Man of Gandalf's hoary years and diminutive stature.

"Don't touch it!" cried the Grey Wizard. "Drop it on the ground at once, messenger, and leave us. And when you do, pull off that glove – careful not to touch it with your flesh! – and throw it somewhere dark and deep. The river Anduin itself, if nowhere else will do. Quick! Off with you, and do as I say!"

"Yes, my lord," nodded the messenger, who scurried from the room. Earnur stepped back, as Gandalf crouched over the arrow and scroll, running his fingers above them and whispering words in an unknown tongue.

"What's all this about?" asked King Earnil, clearly growing impatient. "What are you doing, Mithrandir?"

Gandalf was silent for a moment, but then sighed deeply, and picked up the arrow. "I feared the arrow and scroll were hexed or poisoned," explained Gandalf, "but I discern no danger in them." He removed the scroll, and broke the arrow across his knee, tossing it into a small brazier that glowed by the foot of the Throne. Then he broke the seal and removed the ribbon, likewise casting them into the brazier, before presenting the scroll to Earnur.

Earnur unfolded it, and read it slowly for several minutes, his brows knotting as he did so – the letters were of ancient Numenorean mode, written in a thin, spidery hand, and he found them difficult to read. But at length he stared up, and the scroll crumpled beneath his mighty fist.

"Well, Earnur, what does it say?" asked the King.

"It calls me to my fate," replied Earnur grimly. He opened the scroll again, and read it aloud:

"_To Earnur, Crown Prince of Gondor, son of Earnil II of the House of Anarion, King of Gondor: Greetings. When last we met, thou wert full of idle boasts, and did think to best me in combat. Thou didst fight bravely and with skill, yet thy wiles were not enough to save thee from my sorcery, and only an Elven-blade spared thee from death. Yet I am not without honour, and having captured from the House of Anarion this tower from which I write, and the lands east of the swift Anduin, I propose to thee a challenge. Thou and I shall meet in the vale of Imlad Morgul, known to thee as Imlad Ithil, and face each other again in single combat at sunset on the eve of May. Thou shalt come alone, and I shall meet thee alone. I swear to thee by the Sun, the Moon, the Stars, the deeps of the Sea, and the foundations of the Earth, that I shall employ no sorcery against thee, nor any trickery, but rather shall I set my blade against thine. If thou can best me, then I shall withdraw my armies from the lands between the Anduin and the Mountains of Shadow, and return them as a gift to the House of Anarion. But if I best thee, then thou shalt submit to my yoke, and Gondor shalt pay tribute to me until the breaking of the world. In either case shall many of thy soldiers and thy people be spared, who shall otherwise surely perish in war. Therefore choose thou wisely, with a thought to the bravery of thy ancestors, and the royal dignity of thy House. Signed and sealed on this day etc., The Witch King of Angmar and Lord of Minas Morgul"_

Earnur looked up again, crumpling the parchment once more in his fists. Gandalf frowned, but remained silent for the moment.

"This dog means to taunt us!" cried King Earnil, rising from his throne, and striding down to stand before Earnur and Gandalf. "By the Valar, the day will come when he shall pay for his insolence. To return Ithilien as a gift to the House of Anarion – does the thief return to his victim a purse that he stole from him, as a _gift_? What damned nonsense! It was not the thief's by right to begin with!"

"Then you agree I shall face this cur in single combat, father?" replied Earnur eagerly. "I shall certainly thrash him and worse! He will not escape me a second time."

Earnil scowled at his son. "Have you lost your wits?" he snapped. "I just told you that I deem this Witch King's taunts of no account. I'm not sending the heir to the Throne of Gondor – moreover one who is yet unmarried, and has as of yet no children to survive him – to perish in a trap that even a fool could smell from a mile away!"

"He gives his word of honour that there will be no treachery," exclamed Earnur. "And after such an oath, the code of the warrior would forbid it. Rather, he seeks a duel, a contest of one-on-one…"

"Honour and the code of the warrior mean nothing to a being such as the Witch King," interjected Gandalf, staring up sharply. "On this matter, Earnur, your father is certainly right."

"That I am, by the gods!" cried the King. "I do not want to hear another word of such foolishness from you, Prince. You will not walk into the Morgul Lord's trap, simply out of pride or folly, only to find yourself ambushed in the Ithil Vale by a thousand Orc-arrows. I forbid it! That is the end of the matter."

"But I have sworn an Oath by Eru!" rejoined Earnur hotly. "To slay the Witch King in combat, single handed. It is a proverb amongst Men that Eru shall bind all those who swear by His name, and shall exact their oaths from them to the last degree. And such an oath cannot be undone. Is that not so, Gandalf?" The Grey Wizard frowned, but did not reply.

"Do not speak of oaths to me!" cried King Earnil, his grey eyes glowering. "Hand me that parchment at once!" Reluctantly, Earnur did so, and Earnil tossed it directly into the fire on the brazier.

"That letter was addressed to me, not to you, father!" fumed Earnur. "And by my honour, I cannot gainsay my oaths, nor..:"

"_You will do as I command_!" shouted Earnil, his aged features flushing red in his choler. "I am both your father and your King, and as both I will receive your complete obedience! By my sovereign majesty, I decree the challenge null and void, and you will never again speak a word of it to me or to anyone; nor shall you answer it. Do you understand that clearly, boy?"

Earnur scowled, not least that his father had addressed him as "boy" when he was well past his fiftieth year. But then he bowed his head, and whispered sullenly, "I understand and obey, father."

The King stared at him briefly, before exhaling loudly and returning to his throne. Gandalf sighed and muttered under his breath, but was thankful that for now at least Gondor had been spared yet another disaster.


	9. Honour and Honesty

**Honour and Honesty**

The fall of Ithilien was a severe blow to Gondor's pride and prestige, one that shook the morale of the people and left the kingdom appearing weak and vulnerable. Despite the best hopes of King Earnil and his son, the Mordor Orcs were not driven from the eastern shores of Anduin, but instead reinforced and entrenched their position. The supply of Orcs seemed inexhaustible, for no matter how many thousands were slain in battle, thousands more were always ready to take their place. But the Gondor-men lost many brave warriors in their drive to reclaim Ithilien for their own realm, just as Gandalf had feared they might. Gandalf himself had tried to do what he could to counsel and succor the people of Gondor; but new perils and dangers were rising across the whole of Middle Earth, and in time the Grey Pilgrim, with great reluctance, was forced to leave Gondor to its own devices while he returned to the troubled lands of the North.

The years rolled past into decades, until at length the aging King Earnil II gave up the ghost in his sleep. His son Earnur then succeded him, forty-one years after the fall of Ithilien. Earnur was now old himself by the measure of ordinary Men, though he was remained a hardened and fearsome warrior, and enough of the blood of Numenor flowed in his veins to ensure that a long span of years still lay before him. Yet he had grown sullen and embittered, not only at the failure of his armies to reclaim Ithilien, but at his personal failure to defeat his hated nemesis the Witch King of Angmar. Often Earnur would stride to the highest battlements of Minas Tirith, and stare across the broad Vale of Anduin and over the ruins of Osgiliath toward the glowering Mountains of Shadow. There, he knew, the Witch King lurked within the walls of Minas Morgul, his very presence on Gondorian soil an unendurable humiliation to the proud Heir of Anarion.

King Earnur dwelled on these dark thoughts as he sat in his throne amid the Citadel of Minas Tirith one cool autumn day, some seven years after his coronation. He was conducting his weekly council with the Steward of Gondor, the chief of his civil administration and one of his foremost military counselors.

"Report, Steward Mardil," said the King, though his grey eyes stared somberly toward the East, rather than down at the man who stood before him. "How goes it on the front lines?"

"The situation on the front has not changed substantially in recent months, my liege," replied Mardil, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a long, prominent nose and dark hair streaked with grey. "Our raids into Ithilien are successful for the most part," he continued, "though we have suffered losses. The enemy's Orc-raids west of the river into Anorien have been foiled so far, though not without further losses of our own men. There is less skirmishing with Easterlings and Southrons at present, for they will not cross west of the Anduin. The Corsairs of Umbar began to raid our coasts again earlier this year, as you know, but our navy has driven them off in recent weeks, and returned their favours to us by burning fortresses and granaries in their own southern land. Winter will arrive soon, bringing our campaigns to an end for this year."

"You make it sound as if things are going well," replied Earnur grimly. He ran his thumb over his graying, short-trimmed beard. "Do not forget that in our youth, we would never have imagined that proud Gondor could sink to its current state – half its lands abandoned, the Anduin a frontier rather than the heart of our realm, and Mordor once again full of enemies who seek to destroy us."

"Well I know our plight, my liege," sighed Mardil, his pale blue eyes sombre and weary. "Has it not affected me as much as any man? The founder of my family line, Earakhor of Eldalonde in Numenor, was granted a hereditary estate in the Emyn Arnen of Ithilien by King Meneldil, the son of King Anarion himself. For over two-thousand years, my family dwelt in that fair place. Yet it has lain empty and desolate these past fifty years, and I despair of ever reclaiming it."

"We shall see," replied Earnur. "When I was younger, I had indeed hoped to reclaim Ithilien for Gondor. Yet this war has lasted near five decades, and it is no closer to being won now than when it began."

"Perhaps we require the counsel of the Wizards again," suggested Mardil cautiously. "Curunir the White has not been seen in ages, of course. But surely we can call on Mithrandir?"

"Mithrandir returned to the northlands many years ago," scoffed Earnur. "And in any case, what counsel could he offer us beyond what he that which he has already? He'll tell us to be prudent, and vigiliant, and to strengthen our defenses, and the like. He has no more idea than us how to attain victory over Mordor."

Mardil was about to reply, when a messenger approach from the far end of the Throne Room, bearing in his hand a black-feathered arrow that pierced a scroll. "A missive from the enemy has been sent to you, my liege!" cried the messenger.

"I have seen the like of that before!" cried Earnur, bounding up from his throne and striding across the marbled floor to meet the man. He swept back his azure cape, and sized the arrow from the messenger's grip.

"Leave us!" ordered the King, and the messenger bowed deeply before swiftly departing. As Mardil watched intently, Earnur pulled out the arrow, tossed it into a brazier, broke open the seal, and unfurled the letter. He spent some minutes reading it before crumping it in his fist, hurling it to the floor, and shouting a terrible curse that echoed across the room.

Mardil drew back, pulling his sable robes closer about himself while he waited for his liege's temper to improve. At length, he ventured, "Pray tell, Your Majesty, what does the missive say?"

"Read it for yourself!" spat Earnur, who began to pace back and forth across the Throne Room, glowering and cursing as he did so. Mardil bent over, picked up the scroll, smoothed it out, and read its message, written in ancient script of the bygone mode of Numenor:

"_To Earnur of the House of Anarion, King of Gondor: Greetings. It is near five decades since last I challenged thee, to meet me in a duel of skill and test our blades against each other. My challenge to thee was honourable, yet thou didst not deign to reply. Mayhap thy father, the late and lamented King Earnil II, prevented thee from answering me, for a doddering sire on whom the years lie heavily oft fears to risk harm to the heir of his estate. But be that as it may, thou art now King these past seven years, and no Man may stay thee from following the desire of thy heart. Wherefore I reknew my challenge to thee, on the same terms as before, save the date. Thou shalt meet with me, alone, in the Morgul Vale, after sunset on the eve of the first of November. I shall not employ any sorcery or trickery against thee, but we shall each set our blades against the other. And if thou have the mastery, I shall abandon Ithilien to thee entirely; but if I have the mastery, Gondor shall submit to my yoke, and pay tribute into my hand until the breaking of the world. In either case no more of thy folk, nor any more of mine need fall by sword and spear, slain in a war that otherwise might endure without limit. This then is my offer, and I trust that as a brave and honourable Man of Gondor, in whom the blood of Kings flows as surely as it does in mine own veins, thou shalt accept it. For should thou refuse my offer a second time, without excuse, then the whole world shall know this: that Earnur son of Earnil is a low, baseborn cur, a simpering, wretched coward less worthy than any child or woman of bearing a sword in arms, and a disgrace to the pride and dignity of his ancestors and his realm. Therefore consider thou mine offer with care – for in what lies the immortality of mortal Man, if not in his reputation and his honour? Signed and sealed this day etc., The Witch King of Angmar and Lord of Minas Morgul." _

Mardil rolled up the scroll and frowned – for the eve of November was the very next day.

"You cannot mean to answer this challenge, my liege," declared the Steward. "I shall burn it forthwith, and we will never speak of it again. No Man shall know of it."

"But _he_ will know of it!" exclaimed King Earnur. "And his slurs against my pride and dignity, against my honour as a warrior shall be vindicated."

"You are not a warrior, my liege," replied Mardil somberly. "And you have not been these past seven years. You are our King, and your first thought must be to the welfare of your realm and your people, not to your own pride. Your first duty is to look to Gondor…"

"Do not speak to me of my duty, Steward!" cried Earnur, his deep blue eyes flashing dangerously as he stood to his full height. Though past a hundred, and with the first traces of grey showing in his dark locks, he was still a giant of a Man - no citizen of Gondor would have dared risk his wrath even had he not been King. "I am soverign and master of these lands, and judge in my own case," he continued. "_I_ shall decide where my duty lies."

"It is my own duty to offer you counsel according to my measure of wisdom and my conscience, my liege…" began Mardil. But Earnur again cut him off.

"It is your duty to do as I command!" declared the King. "And my command is this; you will ready my armour, shield, sword and horse, and a barge to ferry me across the Anduin. I shall meet this dog in combat, just as he wishes, and I shall return on the first of November with his head as a trophy. And mark you, it is not merely my own pride and honour that are at stake, Steward – though those are reasons enough. Gondor shall have the benefit of my deeds; for upon the defeat of their lord the denizens of Mordor will be forced to withdraw east of the Mountains of Shadow, as the Witch King has proclaimed they must should I defeat him."

"My liege, this is madness!" exclaimed Mardil angrily. "Have my head for my insolence if you wish, but I will not be silenced on this matter! Your father forbade you to answer the first of the Witch King's challenges; yet Earnil confided to my own late father, the Steward Vorondil, that he feared what you might do when his own time had come, and you assumed the Throne. He commanded Vorondil to do whatever was in his power to dissuade you from falling into the Witch King's trap, and on his deathbed my father commanded me to do the same. By the command of both late King and Steward, then, I am bound to implore you; cast this accursed letter into the fire, and think no more of it!"

"Think you I shall be bound by the wishes of dead Men?" scowled Earnur. "They are dust; they will never walk again beneath the Sun. The living decide their own fate, and I have decided mine. I shall meet this Witch King on the field of combat and slay him, just as I vowed by the sacred name of Eru Illuvatar in my youth. And if you gainsay me again, Steward, then I shall indeed have your head. Do as you are bid!"

"My liege, you are not yet married for all your years," exclaimed Mardil stubbornly, heedless of his peril. "You have not yet sired any heirs. It is this above all that makes what you propose a rash, nay a criminal act…"

"Criminal?" cried Earnur, drawing a dagger from his belt and thrusing it at Mardil's throat, the keen point resting on his skin. "I tire of bandying words with you, Steward!" fumed the King. "If I have not married, it is because the perils of our time have placed too many demands on me to waste my days frolicking with maidens, searching for a suitable mate, when I am needed as commander in the field. I am a warrior, not a lover. But as for you; you shall obey my orders without question, or else I shall name you traitor and slay you here and now by my own hand!"

For a moment Mardil struggled with himself, torn between suppressing his anger at the King's selfish folly and his threats, and openly denouncing the King even at the cost of his own life. But then at last he turned his eyes from Earnur's fierce gaze, and stared toward the floor.

"As Your Majesty has spoken," he replied dejectedly, reciting the ancient formula, "so shall it be done."

* * *

The next day, after the noon-hour feast, Earnur's squires clad him in his magnificent armour of gilded steel, and equipped him with a sword and shield he had long ago prepared for his next confrontation with the Witch King. The shield was an especial treasure, for not long after his return from the Battle of Fornost he had commissioned it from the Dwarves of Khazad-Dum, which was then still a few years shy of its fall and ruin. The Dwarves had forged it of pure Mithril, worked with runes of protection against the sorcery of the Witch King. The sword, though forged from steel and not mithril, was likewise of Dwarven-work, and also had Runes of Power carved along its blade. Thus he planned to defend himself against the Witch King's sorcery, should the fiend again resort to it in place of honest sword-play. Thus also did he scheme to thwart Glorfindel's prophecy that the Witch King would not fall by the hand of Man – for he might at least fall to an enchanted Dwarven blade.

Earnur had justified both treasures to his father simply as vanities, and King Earnil had never learned the meaning of the runes carven upon them, or the reason why Earnur had never used them in battle. Now, at last, both enchanted sword and shield would be put to the test.

As he strode out of his chambers and out the main doors of the Citadel, he found Steward

Mardil and a host of officials standing in the Fountain Court by the White Tree. They were all garbed entirely in robes of sable, and all stared at him somberly, as if silently imploring him to repent of his folly while there was still time.

But Earnur was a Man obsessed, and but one thought consumed his mind; to confront the Witch King and slay him, for the glory of Gondor and the honour of his own name. He strode past his courtiers without acknowledging them, and down the grassy sward of the seventh level of Minas Tirith, taking in the vista eastward across the Vale of Anduin and the ruins of Osgiliath to the distant pinewoods of Ithilien, and the Mountains of Shadow. Amid those grim crags lay Imlad Ithil, now known to Men as the Morgul Vale, the Vale of Dark Sorcery, where he was fated to duel to the death with the Witch King that very evening.

Earnur descended down the stairs that led from the seventh to the sixth level, where at the Royal Stables he found his steed waiting for him; a magnificent gleaming white stallion, proud and brave. He mounted the steed, adjusting the stirrups before spurring it down the long, twisting road that led from Minas Tirith to the Pelennor Fields. He passed rapidly through the city, whose graceful mansions and houses of marble and limestone had long since filled-in the once grassy swards between the walls. Past the sixth level, and down through the fifth, the fourth, the third; each broader and more heavily populated than the last, their narrow streets full of citizens who stared in astonishment at the prospect of the King armed and armoured for battle, yet riding alone. Past the second level, and then down from the hillside to the valley floor and the broad swathe of the first level. By now rumour of the Ride of Earnur had spread across the city like wildfire, and hundreds of citizens of the lower tiers clusted by the Outer Gate, wondering at their King and his purposes – for never before in the history of Gondor had a King ridden into battle alone.

Earnur ignored them all, and spurred his steed across the broad square that lay before the Gate, whose high iron doors lay open from sunrise to sunset. He spared not a glance for the bronze statute of his forefather Anarion, who sat in the centre of the square, mounted on a charger and facing eastward. His eye was fixed only on the horizon, on the Mountains of Shadow, and without a word to the guards by the Gate he dashed under its broad archway, and into the broad, bare meadows of the Pelennor Fields. The Sun was warm on his helm, although a stiff, chill breeze blew from the north, signaling that Gondor's brief winter was on its way. He tarried not, but turned south and east to the landing of the Harlond, some miles south of the ruins of Osgiliath, from where he would ferry across the Anduin to the land of Ithilien – and the territory under occupation by his hated foe.

It was the second hour past noon when Earnur reached the landing, a simple wooden pier by which stood a fortified stone guardhouse. A barge sat waiting for him by the pier, along with an escort of guards who were assigned to protect the ferrymen from ambushes by Orcs on their journeys to the farther shore. Earnur spurring his horse on board the waiting vessel, and with a gesture commanded them to depart. Frowning at their King, the Men never the less complied, and set to work with the long barge-poles. The current of the Anduin was swift, and the river was broad and deep, so fully another half-hour was spent in the journey to the shore of Ithilien, which was choked by vines and bushes that had grown up during the decades that the fields of that land had lain fallow.

"My liege," offered one of the guards on the ferry, "surely you do not mean to cross into enemy territory alone? At least let us accompany you, even on foot. An ambush could be lying in wait for you just beyond the bushes of the shoreline!"

"I cross from one part of my own sovereign lands, to another," replied Earnur fiercely. "I shall return by dawn tomorrow. Instruct those Men on the morning shift that when they see me standing on the eastern shore, holding aloft my sword, they are to cross the river and bear me back forthwith."

"It shall be so, my liege," nodded the Man grimly. Earnur turned his gaze from him, and without another word spurred his horse off the ferry and onto the shores of Ithilien. He plunged into the bushes, and in a moment was gone from sight.

* * *

All throughout the day, Earnur rode across the flat expanse of the Vale of Anduin that marked the western reaches of Ithilien. The land was empty, full of ruined houses choked with creeping vines, and once fertile fields from which grew thickets of bushes and saplings of trees. He had been watchful for an ambush, yet of the Orcs who occupied the land he had not seen a sign. So far, it appeared, the Witch King had kept to his word, and not sought to employ trickery against the King of Gondor.

Earnur smiled to himself at the timidity of Mardil, who had held up the prospect of treachery by the Morgul Lord simply to disguise his own fears concerning the prowess of his King in battle. But Earnur knew that for all his own long years he was still the mightiest warrior of his age, and with the aid of the enchanted Dwarven sword and shield he had no doubt that the Witch King would soon meet his much-deserved fate.

Earnur continued his ride from the flatlands into the sloping, pine-clad foothills of Ithilien, in which the shadows of late afternoon already lay ominously on the ground. He continued urging his steed up the hills and through the forests, heading north and east, until at sunset he at last came to the Crossroads of Ithilien.

There, amid a giant grove of ancient pines, Earnur paused, allowing his steed to catch its breath while he steeled himself for the duel ahead. Looking to the West, he could seen the Sun dipping beneath the peaks of the White Mountains, whose snows now glowed pink and violet under its rays. Minas Tirith stood tall and proud upon the shoulder of Mount Mindoluin, a bulwark and a bastion against those forces of evil who sought to thwart the destiny of Men.

Then, turning to the East, where the Mountains of Shadow glowered dark and cold, Earnur stared up at the granite statue of Isildur, its sides chipped by axes and smeared with the crude graffiti of the Orcs. "Soon you will be avenged, my kinsman," cried Earnur, "and these lands shall once again lie under the flag of Gondor." Earnur could feel a deeper chill in the air as the last rays of the Sun faded and died, and the sky swiftly began to grow dark. Then he spurred his steed forward, up the long, straight road that led under the dark pines and into the depths of the Morgul Vale.

The steed had not taken more than a few steps east of the crossroads when in halted, suddenly, as if it had hit an invisible wall. Earnur cursed and spurred it again, but the beast, though neighing loudly and pawing and scraping desperately at the ground, would not take another step. His ire roused by the steed's stubborn refusal, Earnur cuffed it on the ears with a sweep of his mighty hand, seeking to break its will and force it to continue on its ride. But far from bending under Earnur's blow the steed reared up, neighing loudly as it threw him flat onto his back!

Earnur was on his feet in an instant, swearing even more loudly than before. He called after the errant beast, threatening a thousand curses upon its head; but, heedless of his words, the horse plunged into the stands of Pine trees on the farther side of the crossroads, galloping with all the speed it could muster as it fled toward the West. Earnur spat on the ground and stared after it with disgust, as he realized that he would have to complete the rest of his journey on foot – and that he faced and long a weary walk back to the ferry-crossing of the Harlond, was his victory over the Witch King was complete.

Resigning himself to this unwelcome twist of fate, Earnur turned back toward the East, striding briskly over the cobblestones of the Road that led under the Pine trees which lay before the distant Morgul Vale. It grew dark rapidly, and the Stars shone cheerily overhead, while the pale Moon rose delicately above the looming bulk of the Mountains of Shadow. It was black beneath the Pine trees – black as pitch – and not a sound of bird or beast was to be heard amid the watchful silence of the land. But the Road was broad, and the clean light of the Stars and Moon soothed Earnur's fevered spirit as he strode toward the long-awaited duel against his hated foe.

For some hours did he walk, the ground rising steadily before him all the while, until the massive walls of the Mountains of Shadow now loomed straight above him. He could only discern their peaks, for the mountains themselves seemed veiled in the darkest midnight, and he could no longer discern any trace of their contours. The Road plunged straight into a narrow crack or fissure in the mountains, turning sharply to the right as it followed the course of a narrow, swift-flowing stream. This was the entrance to the Morgul Vale. A pale glimmer shone against the rock walls of the valley, and though Earnur could not see its source, he felt his skin crawl, as if he had seen that same luminous glow long before. He glanced upward at the rising Moon, and from its position in the Sky he discerned that it was near midnight.

Drawing his sword, which gleamed even under the dim light from the Stars and the Moon, Earnur now strode into the valley with caution. He was alert for the presence of his foe, who he imagined might rise up before him out of the shadows at any moment. Yet the passage into the valley was quite empty, and without let or hindrance Earnur flowed the Road along its sharp turn through the narrow defile, where the broad Morgul Vale itself opened up before him.

Earnur then stopped and stared, his blood running cold as he witnessed the ruin of that place which had once been known as Imlad Ithil, the Valley of the Rising Moon. Earnur had visited that valley as a youth, and had see it then as it had always been; a broad, flowery meadow, through which gurgled a happy stream, and which was encompassed by tall, pine-clad mountains. At the feet of those mountains had sat the Tower of Minas Ithil, whose walls were infused with pale moonlight.

Yet Imlad Ithil was no more, and in its place now stood Imlad Morgul, the Vale of Dark Sorcery. Before Earnur's horrified gaze stretched a broad, foetid marsh, bisected by a foul-smelling drain, its sodden expanse filled with diseased, fungoid flowers and giant mushrooms that glowed with a sickly radiance, and seemed to sway stealthily back and forth in the stagnant air, as if animated by their own evil life. The pine forests of the valley had been destroyed, and the rocky walls of the mountains soared sheer and barren towards the sky. A noxious mist rose up from the bog, forming a heavy ceiling above the roof of the valley which blocked out the light of the Stars, and transformed the Moon into a hideous, yellowish, bloated orb that stared down on him mockingly.

Worst of all was the Tower itself, the accursed and daemon-haunted Citadel of Minas Morgul. It still bore the shape it had in life, yet it was now quite dead, its walls luminous with a sickly, greenish corpse-light which fed off its rotten stone, and yet which illuminatinated nothing. Its dark windows grinned down on Earnur, and its iron gates stood like a giant maw waiting to consume those foolish enough to draw nearby.

For a moment Earnur was almost tempted to turn back, to flee into the West, to lands that were sane and clean. Mardil and the others would not chastise him for his cowardice, but rather would welcome him with open arms, overjoyed that he had at last come to his senses. No one need never know why he had ridden into the East, and the Challenge would fade away as if it had never existed. His reputation amongst his people would remain intact.

But then Earnur steeled himself, cursing such fears as the fruits of cowardice. For while his reputation might remain intact, the dark stain on his honour would be irrevocable, and to his dying day he would never forfive himself for surrendering to his fear, or for breaking his solemn Oath by Eru. It was his memory of that Oath and his dread of violating it which more than anything drove him to take one step forward, and then another. Before he knew it he found himself striding along the Road through the accursed marshes, and toward the looming walls of Minas Morgul.

The mists were thicker now that the marshes lay roundabout, and Earnur soon found himself encompassed by them, unable to see more than ten or twelve paces ahead. On the one hand he counted this a blessing, for at least he no longer had to gaze upon the festering evil of the Morgul Vale. But on the other hand he raised his guard all the higher, for he knew that with every step he grew ever more vulnerable to assault by an unseen foe.

Suddenly, Earnur came to a stop as a dark figure loomed up in the mists before him. Then he took several paces forward, sword ready, until he stopped again and took the measure of the towering form. Its ebon armour was now swathed in robes of black cloth, and an iron crown no longer sat upon its head. Yet staring under the cowl of its hood, at the midnight blackness that lay where a face should have been, Earnur had no doubt that he stood before the Witch King of Angmar, Lord of Minas Morgul.

The Witch King regarded Earnur silently for some moments. Then, in a hollow, sepulchral voice, he intoned, "Thou art late, King of Gondor. My challenge said for thee to meet me past sunset; yet it is now the midnight hour. I had thought mayhap thy courage had failed thee for a second time."

"Yet I am here none the less," replied Earnur proudly, falling into his battle stance. "The Heir of Anarion has come to claim his due, o spawn of the shadows."

"And indeed thou shalt claim thy due, mortal," replied the Witch King tonelessly.

"At least you have for once dealt honourably," observed Earnur, as he began to edge toward his foe. "You stand alone, just as you had vowed. Thus in death you shall not be entirely disgraced."

A series of harsh gurgles and wheezes issued from the Witch King, which Earnur recognized with disgust as the sound of his laughter. His eyes narrowed angrily, for the Witch King was now mocking him openly – why else had he not yet drawn his sword to defend himself?

Earnur saw shadows stir in the mists, and stood rooted to the ground as he whipped his head about, staring to the right and to the left. Then he felt his blood turn to icewater, as a figure indentical to the Witch King, though a handsbreath shorter in stature, stepped forth from the mist! Now two tall, dark figures, their faces veiled in shadow, stood silently amid the Road.

"What is this treachery?" cried Earnur, drawing back. Then he heard the scrape of a steel-shod boot on the Road behind him, and turned around in a flash, to find a third dark-robed figure loom up before him out of the mist!

"Three against one?" cried Earnur, turning back to the Witch King. "Is that your idea of an honourable duel, foul sorcerer?"

"Nay," replied the Witch King, shaking his cowled head. "There are yet more."

Earnur turned about this way and that, as black-robed figure after black-robed figure stepped forth out of the mists, surrounding him in a circle. Then no more figures emerged, and Earnur realized that he was surrounded by nine of the hideous, faceless beings, including the Witch King himself.

"Who are these devil-spawn, garbed in shadow just as yourself?" shouted Earnur, his body shaking violently – whether with rage, or fear, he could not tell.

"My brothers and I bid thee welcome to the Morgul Vale," mocked the Witch King in reply, as he drew his long sword. "Now thou shalt be our guest at Minas Morgul, and enjoy the hospitality of the Nine."

"I claim his eyes," moaned one of the nightmare beings, drawing its own sword and pointing it at Earnur.

"And I his ears," hissed a second, likewise drawing its blade.

"And I his tongue," rasped a third, as it and its other five kindred drew their blades and held them at the ready.

The Nine…where had Earnur heard that phrase before? Had not Sauron of Mordor in his service Nine Wraiths of Men, his chief henchmen in the days of his dark empire? Then surely these evil beings were the very same, and the Witch King's true age could be measured not in centuries, but in millennia!

"Slave of Sauron!" cried Earnur to the Witch King. "To think you summoned me here by appeals to honour! By the Valar, there is neither a scrap of honour nor any truth to be found in your accursed body, you cowardly spawn of a dunghill rat!"

The Nine hissed at the name of the Valar, and uttered vile curses and blasphemies. But then the Witch King gurgled and wheezed harshly in evil laughter at the charges hurled against him by his foe.

"Honour and honesty are the policies of fools," gloated the Witch King. "Shall it not be as I prophesied at the Battle of Fornost? Surely thou shalt suffer death by torment, and thy name shall indeed be a warning and a byword amongst Men."

With a ferocious cry, Earnur hurled himself at the Witch King, his blade crashing down on his foes with the clang of steel-on-steel and a shower of sparks. The Witch King at once parried his blade, and slashed at him with a vicious backhanded stroke that he only barely manged to block with his shield.

But then Earnur heard the scraping of many more steel-shod feet, and in an instant he found himself under a rain of blows, the Nine screeching horribly as they sought to cut him down where he stood, each striving to penetrate his guard and deliver the fatal blow.

Earnur bellowed like an enraged lion set upon by wolves, and in a frenzied burst of speed he slashed back at his foes, hacking and hewing at their blades, untill they began to draw back before him. It was no longer in Earnur's mind to slay the Witch King; nor was he honour bound to do so, for the time being, on account of the Witch King's treachery. To cut his way through the Nine black-robed Wraiths, and make a mad dash west for the Anduin and safety was all that Earnur sought. He would worry about his accursed Oath to Eru later.

The battle raged on for many minutes, as again and again the Nine rushed into to attack Earnur, and again and again he drove them off with a burst of speed and skill that would have amazed even the legendary warriors of the Elder Days. But at length the blood began to ring in Earnur's ears and his steps began to falter; for he was no longer young, and the assaults of the tireless Wraiths came ever more fast and furious.

Then the Witch King drew back from the skirmish, and holding up his black-gloved hand he spoke a Word of Power in a barbarous tongue. Earnur staggered back as both his sword and his shield exploded in flying shards of steel and mithril before his very eyes! It seemed that the enchanted runes of the Dwarves, for all their power, were not strong enough to dispel the Black Arts of the Witch King of Angmar.

Earnur reached desperately for his dagger, only to cry out in pain as a cold blade hewed at his ankles, cutting through his steel armour and severing his tendons, leaving him sprawled and helpless on the Road. He flailed about, only to scream again as two more blades cut into his shoulders, paralyzing his arms and rendering him helpless.

The Witch King unleashed a deafening screech of triumph, which faded into a long,dreadful wail. As the mists began to fade, a deep groaning issued forth from Minas Morgul, whose doors now swung open slowly on their pivots, revealing a host of gloating Orcs within.

"Bind him and take him," ordered the Witch King, as he sheathed his sword. "His torment awaits." The other Wraiths sheathed their own swords, and then swarmed over Earnur, who screamed and gibbered incoherently as they lifted him over their heads, carrying him swiftly along the Road toward their dead city.

The Witch King followed close on their heels, bringing up their rear as they passed under the grinning archway and into the mob of Orcish torturers, who were armed with curved blades, and whips, and other tools of their gruesome trade. Then there was another deep groan of rusty wheels and gears, and with a harsh metallic clang the iron gates of Minas Morgul closed about their prey.


	10. The Council of Mardil

**The Council of Mardil**

It was but a few days before the Yuletide feast, yet there was not a soul from Minas Tirith to Dol Amroth who looked toward the celebration with customary joy. For Earnur son of Earnil had disappeared from the lands of living Men, and a King no longer sat upon the throne of Gondor.

At first, the people had been merely curious about Earnur's solitary ride into the East. It soon became known by gossip that he had crossed the Anduin on the Harlond ferry on the eve of the first of November, vowing to return at dawn of the next day. But he had not returned that day, nor the day after, nor the day after that. And as days stretched into weeks and then months, the puzzlement of the citizens grew into alarm, and then fear. When news came that the ancient White Tree of the Fountain Court had suddenly withered and died, the fear of the people was inflamed into outright panic. Riots had begun to break out in the cities as angry citizens demanded the return of their King, and Steward Mardil had to declare martial law and deploy soldiers in the streets to maintain order. Yet the citizens were sullen and fearful, uncertain of their future now that their realm no longer had a rightful monarch.

That was only the beginning of Gondor's troubles; for while Earnur was childless, and had no living close relations, yet there were many amongst the nobles of Gondor who could claim some ancestry from Anarion the First King, albeit none according to the right of primogeniture. As Earnur's absence waxed ever longer, and the people began to become ever more fearful that he might not return, those nobles who felt they could stake a claim to the throne began to form their plans, and maneuver against each other in a struggle for power that all knew might swiftly escalate into civil war.

Mardil, determined to prevent Gondor from turning against itself when it was beset by external enemies on all sides, had shrewdly realized that decisive action was needed to forestall a crisis. While issuing bribes or threats to squelch the more dubious claimants, he had summoned the leading contenders to a conference in the Citadel of Minas Tirith. There they would determine by reason and consent, rather than violence and force, who should sit upon the Throne of Gondor in the absence of the rightful King.

Thus, Mardil now sat at the round marble table that occupied the onyx-pillared Council Room, with those four Men who could most plausibly claim the strongest descent from the line of Anarion. These were Guilin, the Lord Mayor of Pelargir; Caranthir, the Prince of Dol Amroth; Elurin, the Duke of Lossarnarch; and Hathol, the Baron of Lamedon.

"The meeting will come to order," said Mardil solemnly, sweeping his sable cloak over his shoulders. "I thank all of my lords for their graciously accepting my invitation, and attending this Council. Here, may the Valar be willing, reason and good sense shall prevail. I remind you that I am merely the Chair of the Council, placing the good offices of the Steward at your disposal as an honest broker and mediator. It is up to you, gracious lords, to decide for yourselves which of you most deserves to sit on the Throne of Gondor, until the King returns."

"Until the King returns?" asked Elurin, a tall, broad-shouldered man of middle years with lanky brown hair, dressed in plain robes of green cloth. "And what prospect is there of that?" he continued. "If any of us thought that Earnur would return from his solitary venture into the East, surely none of us would be sitting here at this table, debating who should take his crown from him."

"With respect to my lord Elurin, I have questions regarding Earnur's fate before I formally stake my claim for the Throne," exclaimed Caranthir. He was a tall, lean man with auburn hair, green eyes, a youthful mein, and a strikingly handsome face; indeed it was rumoured that his great-grandmother had been a Sylvan Elf. He leaned gracefully in his high-backed ebon chair, smoothed a crease in his flowing azure robes, and continued; "In particular, a satisfactory account of Earnur's motives for journeying into the East has not been made to me, Steward Mardil, nor I daresay to any of us. What did Earnur seek to accomplish? Surely you would know what he was about, if any Man does. And if we know Earnur's motives, then perhaps we can understand why he has not yet returned."

"I know this much," sighed Mardil, "though all of you must swear to keep secret what I tell you; at least until a new King has been agreed upon." He stared somberly at each of them, and then said, "Earnur rode alone to Minas Morgul, to fight a duel one-on-one against the Witch King."

Exclamations of shock and disbelief filled the room, as the nobles took in this harrowing news. "I tried," continued Mardil, raising his hand in a gesture for the others to be silent, "to dissuade him from this folly, but he was as a Man possessed. We know not with certainty Earnur's fate; however, there is every reason to fear the worst. The death of the White Tree in its Fountain Court, which you surely noted for youselves as you entered the Citadel, is surely a fearful augur with regard to Earnur that cannot be gainsaid. I hope with all my heart that Earnur returns to us, alive and well; but, my hopes cannot be sustained by reason. All of us must accept what seems to be the bitter truth, as the basis on which to proceed."

There was a grim silence for some moments. Then Guilin, a grey-bearded man of many years, pulled his fur-trimmed cape more tightly about his spare frame, and said, "Are we sure he is not being held hostage by the Morgul Lord? Surely the King of Gondor would be a valuable prize to him."

"And with what would we ransom Earnur?" replied Mardil. "Riches? I doubt the Witch King can be bribed with coins from our treasury. Slaves? He has slain all his captives mercilessly; he seeks our destruction, not our mere servitude. Our kingdom itself? We have neither authority nor inclination to surrender it for the sake of a single man, even if that man is our sovereign. But in any case, if Earnur yet lived, and a ransom was sought, then where is the ransom note? We must surely face the facts, gentlemen, however unwelcome they appear to us."

"Unwelcome indeed," smiled Hathol, a thick-set man dressed in heavy dun-coloured robes. He had been a manorial lord on a country estate until the Black Plague had slain his cousin, the former Baron of Lamedon, and all the Baron's close relations. Plucked from obscurity to sit on a throne of carven silver and feast in the great hall of a marble-walled palace, Hathol yet retained the shrewdness and crude manners of the peasants amongst whom he had spent much of his youth.

"Admit it, gentlemen," he exclaimed, "we all know Earnur has snuffed it; and not one of us is upset. We all want his Throne for ourselves; aye, and his palace, and his treasuries, and his estates, and all the fair maidens who'll look on us with a willing eye once we're the King of Gondor, even if mad Earnur spurned their advances. Perks of the job, eh? So let's stop ambling about, and get to the point. Who is to be King, and why has he more right than any of the rest of us?"

The others stared at him silently, while Mardil frowned in disapproval of his distasteful remarks. Then Caranthir said, "That's precisely the problem. Earnur's close relatives save his father all perished in the Black Plague, leaving us only to claim his Throne. Are not the four of us all Earnur's second cousins once removed? Indeed we are, and since all of us are related to him in the same degree, none has more right by virtue of descent from Anarion than does any other."

"I claim the right," said Guilin, thrusting forth his grey-bearded chin, "by virtue of my many years. Age and wisdom ever take precedence over youthful eagerness."

"We're looking for a King, not a schoolmaster," smirked Elurin. "As for myself, I held a post in the civil service of Minas Tirith for many years, before inheriting my title as Duke. I claim the Throne by right of my administrative skill."

"Now it is my turn to say that we are looking for a King, and not a bureaucrat," smiled Caranthir, and the others broke into laugher – save Elurin, who fell into a sulk.

"Speaking for myself," said Caranthir smoothy, "I claim the Throne by virtue of the ennoblement of my bloodline with Elven ancestry but a few generations ago; for the Half Elven have ever been known as the only rightful Kings amongst Men."

"Your Half Elven-blood makes you more than half a foreigner, to my mind," scowled Elurin. "You don't belong at this table at all." Caranthir glared fiercely at him, and seemed prepared for a stinging riposte.

Hathol then interjected, declaring, "I claim the Throne by virtue having every Man of Lamedon who can wield a pike or spear ready to stand by me through thick or thin. And claim it I will, by hook or by crook."

The others fell silent, and Mardil frowned deeply at him. "That," said Mardil coldly, "is precisely the sort of attitude that is unwelcome here, Baron Hathol. As Chair, I will not permit any threat of violence to be uttered at this Council."

"Then this may be a short Council," grunted Hathol, "and the matter best decided elsewhere, and by more direct means."

Mardil rose to his feet, about to issue a stern rebuke to the Baron of Lamdeon, when he was interrupted by a guard opening the polished ebon doors of the chamber. "Forgive me, my lord," said the guard, "but you have a visitor."

"What are you talking about, man?" cried Mardil, his patience seemingly exhausted by the grim course the Council had taken thus far. "I forbade any interruptions, save on matters of the utmost urgency! Tell whoever it is to cast himself into the Anduin!"

"Come come, my good steward," replied the tall figure who then strode through the doors and into the Council chamber. "A swim in the Anduin would be most unpleasant at this time of the year. Besides, I'm sure you'll find me a useful addition to this little meeting."

"Curunir the White!" gasped Mardil. "You're alive! And well! You have not been seen in these lands for seventy-six years, not since you tutored me in my youth. From whence did you come, and with what purpose?"

"Indeed, Curunir is my name in these parts," smiled Saruman, who stood garbed in robes of brilliant white, and bore an ebon staff in his slim hand.

"Who the devil is this gangly fellow?" scowled Hathol. "Tell him to begone, Steward. We don't need strangers in a Council of State."

"Peace!" cried Saruman, his dark eyes glinting for a moment. Hathol seemed about to reply, yet suddenly fell silent, and all the members of the Council stared at the White Wizard expectantly.

"I was a friend of Gondor long before you were even imagined, Hathol son of Hador," replied Saruman evenly. "I have journeyed long in the East, and learned many things of great import – though I fear I cannot discuss them at the moment. But it appears I have arrived not a moment to soon, for sadly Gondor has fallen on hard times during my absence. And now you are even without a King."

"Your wisdom is most welcome at this table, my lord Curunir," said Mardil. He ordered the guard to bring an extra chair for Saruman and then close the doors, and the guard did so. Saruman leaned his staff against the wall and took his seat at the table, graciously accepting a crystal goblet of white wine from the Steward. He sipped at it delicately, nodded approvingly, and then turned to the Men assembled before him.

"So, my friends," he smiled, in a deep, mellow voice the echoed against the walls of the chamber, "you all seek to be King! My, my. Men have ever desired powered above all else, it seems."

"It is not only our own desire for…I mean, it is not at all a mere desire for power that has led us here," Guilin exclaimed, while Hathol grinned knowingly. "Gondor must have a King!" continued Guilin. "How else shall she survive in the face of so many enemies who seek her ruin?"

"Ah! Naturally," replied Saruman, with a curious smile on his white-bearded face. "Clearly, the Men of Gondor, heirs of proud Numenor, are such children they cannot manage their affairs without a father to hold their hands." The nobles sat back in their chairs, shifting uncomfortably, but Saruman turned his dark gaze upon Mardil.

"Tell me, Steward," inquired Saruman. "Have you consulted the book of the law, regarding the succession to the Throne?"

"Of course," nodded Mardil.

"And what does it say?" asked Saruman.

"None of the nobles present have any stronger claim to the Throne than any of the others," replied Mardil. "Hence we are at an impasse, unless we can reach a consensus as to why one of them should be King."

"But that is not the whole of the law, is it, Steward?" chided Saruman gently. "Come, my friend, tell these fine gentleman what is already known to you. Is it not the case that there is another Man who has a stronger claim to the Throne than any present?"

"What?" exclaimed Elurin, while the others glared at Mardil. "Is that true?" continued Elurin. "What sort of game are you playing at, Steward?"

"It is –_ technically_ true," replied Mardil uncomfortably. "I have not invited him here, partly because I am not sure exactly where he is, and partly because I was unsure how your lordships would react if he were at this table."

"We'd be no more displeased with you than we are now," scowed Hathol. "Who is this fellow, and why should he be ashamed to show his face to us, or you to invite him here?"

"Well," replied Mardil diplomatically, "the law of the succession in Gondor is the same as that of fallen Numenor, from whence it is derived. It is based on the principle of primogeniture as articulated by the Numenoreans, not on simple blood inheritance."

"We all know that," snapped Elurin. "Get to the point."

"The point," replied Mardil, "is that the line of primogeniture descending from Anarion has failed. But Anarion was not King of Gondor by his own right. He was appointed as such by the High King Elendil, whose own claim to the Kingship through the Lords of Andunie from Tar-Minyatur was possible only with the extinguishment of the Royal House of Numenor during the cataclysm that destroyed our ancestral homeland."

Mardil paused. "Because the line of Anarion – the line of primogeniture, that is, not of blood descent – is extinguished, the Throne of Gondor reverts to Elendil; and he being deceased, it reverts to his other son, and Co-regent of Gondor during his lifetime, Isildur."

Mardil paused again, as the nobles turned pale, and began to shift in their seats.

"And since Isildur is desceased," concluded Mardil, "the line of primogeniture must be traced down the generations to Isildur's Heir; and that is Aranarth, son of Arvedui, Lord of the Dunedain of the North. And as you doubtless know, Aranarth is also more recently descended from the line of Anarion through his maternal ancestry, which some might view as a reinforcement of his claim through the paternal line." He swallowed audibly. "In any case, as a technical matter of law, Lord Aranarth is by right the King of Gondor as we speak."

There was an appalled silence, as the nobles took in the implications of what they had heard. Then Hathol cried, "Are you trying to tell me none of us present has the right to claim the Throne of Gondor at all?"

"That would seem the obvious implication," replied Caranthir wryly.

"Peace, my friends!" replied Saruman gravely. He turned again to Mardil. "So Lord Aranarth is the rightful King of Gondor. Dear, dear, that is indeed unwelcome news to you ambitious gentlemen, is it not?"

There was a strained silence, as he continued his remarks. "Well, surely the law is the law. Aranarth must be summoned to Gondor to claim the Throne, despite," – Saruman raised a sable eyebrow – "well, despite the difficulties that he met with, during his youth."

"By difficulties," fumed Elurin, "I take it you mean the loss of his own sovereign realm in the North, and the renunciation of his title as King of Arnor?"

"Well, there is that to consider, I suppose," replied Saruman with seeming reluctance.

"Consider?" sputtered Elurin. "The man lost his own Kingdom! His father led it into the grave, and then he himself buried it! Should Gondor be ruled by such a man as he?"

"Never!" cried Hathol, slamming his fist on the table. "Lamedon would secede from Gondor first, I promise you that."

"What? Do you threaten war then, Baron?" cried Guilin. "For the second time this day? I didn't travel all this distance from Pelargir at my age to listen to such talk!"

"_Peace, gentlemen!"_ boomed Saruman, in a loud, clear voice that shook the walls of the room. Astonished by the power hidden within his slender frame, the nobles pulled away from him, chastened by his disapproving stare.

"Let us at least behave reasonably," chided Saruman, his voice now mellow once again. "No more threats and bluster if you please." He stared at each of them individually, and then smiled once again, the image of calm wisdom.

"So," he remarked, "it seems that your laws have led you to an impasse. The only Man who has a right to sit on the Throne of Gondor is unacceptable to you; yet it is also plain that none of you will ever consent to any of the other being made King. It is indeed a pity that your laws and traditions have placed you in such a predicament."

"Well, we must do something," replied Hathol sourly, still in an ill humor. "We cannot leave the Throne sitting empty."

"Can't you?" enquired Saruman innocently. "For that, gentlemen, is precisely what I propose you must do!"

"What?" they all gasped, astonished by the White Wizard's almost blasphemous remark.

"But there must be a King!" cried Guilin, his aged hands growing palsied in his agitation. "There must be a King, because…"

"Because what?" interjected Saruman, his face suddenly hard and shrewd. "Because it is written in some hoary old book? Because there always has been one? Because you can't imagine anything else?"

The others stared at him uncomfortably, as he continued pressing home his point. "Come, gentlemen," he insisted, "shall the dead rule the living? Will you be bound to a certain course, because of the wishes of Men who breathed their last ages before you were born? Leave the Elves to live in the past, my friends. You are Men, and must look to the future. You do not need a King to rule your fate."

"But why should we not wish to have a King?" frowned Elurin. "And who else is to rule the land of Gondor? Without no ruler, there will be chaos."

"You should not wish to have a King," replied Saruman, "for the reasons you and I have already stated. The Man who your law books say is King is nothing but a penniless Ranger. He is a vagabond of no account, living off the charity of his betters, who has never so much as set foot in Gondor in his life. And not one of you gentlemen shall become King, save that you first gain the victory in a civil war that would result in Gondor's final ruin. What good would it do any of you to seize the Throne, only to find Gondor so weakened that you could not resist the onslaught of the Morgul Lord? For mark my words; as soon as Gondor is bled dry by a war of brother against brother, he will strike at you, and strike hard."

Saruman stared at them meaningfully, to ensure that the point had sunk home. Satisfied, he then smiled, and continued, "Of course, your remark concerning the need for a ruler is well taken, my good Duke. Beyond any doubt Men require someone whom they can look to as an authority. But let reason and common sense prevail; necessity does not require that a Man must be barred from such authority, simply because the blood of such-and-such a Man who is long dead does not flow through his veins."

"That sounds most irregular to me," frowned Guilin. "But who shall exercise authority over Gondor, if not a Man of the Royal line?"

"Who has already exercised authority over Gondor these past two months, even though he is without a drop of royal blood in his veins?" replied Saruman triumphantly. "I propose that our mutual friend, the good Steward Mardil, shall rule the land in place of any King. He shall exercise the functions of the sovereign, without claiming his title or prerogatives. In this fashion you shall have order in the realm, and you shall keep the peace between the rival claimants to the Throne – for none of you four gentlemen shall have been bested by the others, and your honour shall be satisifed."

Mardil stared up suddenly, an astonished expression on his face. The nobles seemed equally surprised, as if the thought would never have crossed their own minds in a thousand years. Then Hathol stood to his feet, scowling darkly, and said:

"So that's your game, is it Mardil? This whole Council was a ruse, the purpose of which was to draw us up here to Minas Tirith, so that this Curunir, this scheming friend of yours, could deposit you on the Throne in our place, and use his fancy talk to fool us into meekly submitting? Well, by the Valar, I won't allow it! I'll…"

"You will sit down," interjected Saruman coldly, his dark eyes now hard and inscrutable, "and you will remain silent for the rest of this Council. My patience with your stupidity is exhausted, and it bodes ill for any Man to cross swords with Curunir the White."

Hathol glared at Saruman, as if ready to leap across the table and strike him. But as he stared into the midnight depths of Saruman's eyes, he suddenly felt his blood turn chill, and his legs collapsed beneath him. He fell into his chair and hung his head, like a dog that has been chastened by its master. The other nobles stared grimly at him, and exchanged alarmed glances with each other, before one of them finally found the nerve to speak again.

"No doubt your words are wise and fair, O Curunir the White," declared Caranthir. "But if I may make so bold, I do see one difficulty with what you have proposed. Whatever the merit of your criticism of the institution of royalty, or the practical elegance of your proposed solution to our dilemma, the people believe in Kings. They expect a King; nay, they demand one. What shall we say to them, when we tell them that Kings shall rule them no longer?"

"That is merely a matter of form and rhetoric, my good Caranthir," smiled Saruman. "The people will believe what they are told by their betters; namely, the five of you. This crisis was created by the departure of King Earnur, was it not? So tell the people that the Steward shall exercise the functions of the sovereign, until the King returns."

"But he won't return, surely," objected Elurin.

"An irrelevancy," replied Saruman smoothly, with a wave of his hand. "They will understand the principle that the Steward rules in place of the King, and shall do so for the time being. Eventually, they will accept the rule of the Steward by his own authority."

The nobles fell silent again. Then Mardil said, "It is a heavy burden that you would place on me, Curunir. I am most reluctant to shoulder it. But your solution is more practical than any other that has been proposed this day. If my lords will allow it, I will humbly accept the responsibility to exercise the functions of the sovereign, to maintain order within the realm, and defend our borders against our enemies – until, that is," he said with a smile, "the King returns."

"As Prince of Dol Amroth," replied Caranthir with a shrug, "I am prepared to accept your exercise of the sovereign's functions, Steward Mardil. You shall have the support of my House."

"It pains me," sighed Guilin, "to think that a Man without a drop of royal blood in his veins, being only of noble descent, should dare to sit on the Throne of the King of Gondor."

"I shall not sit on the Throne," replied Mardil solemnly. "I shall place my chair at its base only, and I will not lay hands on the Throne itself at all. Then all Men shall see that I exercise merely the powers of the sovereign, and not any of the prerogatives that are peculiar to those of his bloodline."

"Well, in that case," nodded Guilin after some moments, "I can support you as well, Steward. I am not entirely satisfied, but I cannot see any other feasible solution to our impasse. Pelargir shall stand behind you."

"You shall have the support of Lossarnach as well," pledged Elurin, quick to ingratiate himself with Mardil now that the tide had clearly turned in the Steward's favour.

"That is three of you spoken for," observed Saruman. "And what of you, Baron Hathol? Do not speak your reply, for I care not to hear your voice again. You may nod if you give your assent to the rule of Gondor by its Steward."

Without looking up, Hathol nodded briefly.

"Then it is settled," beamed Saruman, rising to his feet. "Let us proceed to the Throne Room forthwith! You may pledge your oaths to the Steward, and then you may inform the people of the wonderful news that Gondor once again has a ruler."

* * *

That day passed as Saruman had envisioned. First the black chair of the Steward was installed at the base of the Throne. Then Mardil took his seat in it, and one by one the nobles and dignitaries at Minas Anor filed before him, pledging their loyalty to the Steward of the House of Anarion.

When the receipt of these oaths was concluded, Steward Mardil and the courtiers then filed out across the Fountain court, past the dead husk of the White Tree, and towards the tall white tower that soared above the Citadel. Mardil gave the word, and a group of soldiers climbed the steps of that tower, at length hauling down from its battlements the Royal Standard of Gondor, with its seven stars and its crown surrounding an image of the White Tree on a field of sable. In its place they raised the banner of Mardil's own House; a pennant of plain cloth-of-silver. They then solemnly folded the Royal Standard, carrying it down the steps of the tower, for safe-keeping in the deepest vaults of the Citadel.

When these ceremonies were completed they filed down the steps to the sixth level of the Minas Tirith, where a crowd of curious onlookers had gathered, eager to know why the Steward's banner now flew from the highest tower of the Citadel. Mardil then issued a proclamation signed by all the nobles and officials declaring the Steward's status as ruler of Gondor and executor of the sovereign power in place of the King – until the King returned. Mardil ordered the proclamation to be circulated across the length and breadth of Gondor, declared that the Yuletide feast would serve as a banquet to honour the elevation of his status, and then dismissed the courtiers.

As Mardil strode back up the steps to the seventh level and approached the Fountain Court he was accompanied by Saruman, whose ebon staff clacked loudly on the tiles of the path that led to the remains of the White Tree. Mardil stopped briefly, staring at the sad remains of the sacred Tree, and then said:

"That went rather well, didn't it old friend?"

"Surely you didn't doubt that we would succeed," smiled Saruman. "I must confess that I enjoyed myself immensely. I do appreciate a bit of theater, now and again."

"I'm only glad you arrived some days ago, and not too late," confided Mardil. "Imagine if one of those vain and pompous peacocks sat upon the throne of Gondor right now, solely by virtue of an accident of birth? The fate of Earnur was enough to demonstrate what happens when the leader of the realm is chosen without any regard to his own merits. I did everything I could to keep that man on the path of reason; but he was obsessed, and in the end his obsession degenerated into madness. As you told me when you returned, some days ago, Gondor is better off without a man of his ilk at its head."

"Earnur was a valiant warrior," acknowledged Saruman. "And also my pupil, as were you. But alas, he never showed as much promise as you did. I always knew you were destined for greater things than him, and once again I am proven right."

"You are always right, it seems," nodded Mardil. "At least now Gondor shall no longer suffer under the rule of mad Kings and their pretensions and flummery; Kings who have led us into one disaster after another these past fifty years with their twaddle about star charts and divinations, and their fixations on false pride and chivalry and such. Sane and sober Men shall rule in their stead, and Gondor shall be the better for it. Still," he admitted, "strangely enough I admit to feeling a trace of melancholy, for beyond any doubt we have reached the end of an era."

"Indeed, the age of the Kings of Men is finished," observed Saruman. "For good or for ill. They played their part, but now their role in the story is at an end."

The White Wizard smiled serenely. "Now common Men, ordinary Men of decency and virtue such as yourself, Mardil, must rule their own fate; though guided, of course, by the hand of Wisdom."

"Ah, indeed your counsel would be invaluable to me, my old teacher!" exclaimed Mardil. "There are many things I would ask of you, if you can spare the time to aid me."

"Oh, I am sure I can," replied Saruman, his eyes gleaming with hidden mirth. "After all, there is no higher calling than to serve others."


	11. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Fifty years later, at the western shore Old Ford that spanned the Great River Anduin between the High Pass of the Misty Mountains to the West, and the dark forest of Mirkwood to the East, Saruman the White sat on his pale thoroughbred steed, preparing to wade across the swift-flowing waters. He was bound for the Council of Wizards held at Rhosgobel, the home of Radagast the Brown, once every century on Midsummer Day.

His steed had just begun to splash into the dark blue waters when he heard a whistled tune echoing from a copse of trees some distance behind him, and heard the footfalls of a lone rider. Frowning, he pulled back from the stream, and sure enough the figure he had expected rounded a bend in the muddy road, slowing from a trot to a canter as it neared the White Wizard.

"Well, Saruman," said Gandalf, pulling on the reins of his brown mare, and adjusting the silver scarf about his neck, "we meet again. I was almost worried about you, when you missed the meeting we had scheduled for the last century. Radagast was beside himself, don't you know."

"I'm touched by your concern," replied Saruman coolly.

"But at least you decided to return to us from your long sojourn in the East," said Gandalf with a wink, "albeit solely so that you could meddle in the politics of Gondor."

"Meddle?" asked Saruman, lifting a sable eyebrow. "You are referring perhaps to my taking measures to maintain order there, and to my preventing that realm from falling into a civil war?"

"That's what I had in mind," replied Gandalf, coughing loudly.

Saruman then smiled charmingly. "Ah, my dear Gandalf," he said, "you never were very good at dissimulating. You're merely upset that your pupil Aranarth was denied the Throne of Gondor."

"By your machinations, yes," sniffed Gandalf. "He's a very old Man today, you know, as his people measure things; I don't exactly think of him as a pupil any more. But I have my own sources in the southlands, and from what I've heard it was thanks to your subtle manipulation of the Gondor-men that Aranarth has not assumed his rightful place on the Throne of the South Kingdom."

"The Kings of Men have failed," replied Saruman firmly. "Aranarth and his son Arahael are vagrants who live off Elrond's charity; in that they are rather similar to you, by the by."

Gandalf's bushy eyebrows shot up in consternation. "In any case, Gandalf," continued Saruman, "you surely didn't think I would allow you to place your own dupes on the Throne of Gondor, so that _you_ could rule the Men of that land from behind the scenes? The Stewards rule Gondor now, and when they seek guidance they look to _me_."

Saruman smiled broadly, as he turned about and led his steed back to the waters of the Ford. "Admit it, my dear Gandalf," he taunted, "you're merely displeased that I have outmaneuvered you in the South, the land where the real contest is being played out. Well, don't take it too hard. You still have your vagrants, and your haughty Elves, and your rude Dwarves, and even your ridiculous little Halflings up in the North. They should be enough to occupy your time, while I devote myself to weighter matters."

Gandalf muttered loudly into his beard, appearing quite put out by the White Wizard's remarks. But then he looked up suddenly, with a mischievous gleam in his eye. "Even the very wise cannot see all ends, Saruman," he whispered, and spurred his steed onward towards the Ford.


End file.
